


the night that covers us

by holdmyhammer (longbottomed)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Disregards everything after CA:CW, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Norse Mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-05-06 07:51:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14637375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longbottomed/pseuds/holdmyhammer
Summary: Thor appears out of thin air four months after the whole Sokovia Accords disaster. One moment there's nothing and the next the perimeter alarms go off all at once and start blaring, making Tony jump and knock his head against the inside of the sixth version of an exoskeleton he's welding together for Rhodey.





	1. black as the pit from pole to pole

**Author's Note:**

> I started this story even before the first trailers for Thor: Ragnarök came out and then screamed as soon as they did.  
> As the tags say, this fic disregards everything after Civil War (because I haven't even seen anything after that - I know, I know), and everything about Marvel Comic Canon (since I haven't read any comics). It's mostly a jumble of MCU and some Old Norse Mythology.
> 
> Also features lots of rambling, Tony's issues and the very dysfunctional families Stark and Odinson.
> 
> It's mainly an excuse to write more ThunderIron because there can never be enough of this delightful pairing.  
> Unbeta'd. Rating may change if I manage to get some smut in.

1

There's sand, everywhere. It shouldn't be possible, the suit is hermetically sealed, Tony knows that, he designed it himself, just to prevent this exact fucking thing. Tony hates sand. Hates, hates, _hates it_ , because it's coarse and rough, and Afgha--

Thing is, it isn't fucking possible for those small, rough grains to get in, Tony made this suit. Nothing gets out, nothing can come in unless Tony _wants_ it to. Which is never, unless he happens to give himself an accidental Dutch oven—and isn't he hilarious, wow, good on you, Tony. But back to the task at hand, back to the freaking sand. Inside. His suit.

Fuck.

It shouldn't be-- Isn't-- defies all laws of--

“FRIDAY,” he croaks, but the HUD is black and his girl is silent and Tony's a freaking mess. Literally. Freaking out, right now, in this very second. Because there's sand in his suit, he's on his back, and he can't move more than wriggle pathetically around in this god-damned death trap of a gold titanium alloy suit. He's a sitting duck, a turtle on its shell, trying to turn around, but he can't, the suit's too heavy without the reactor. And how the fuck did she manage that?! How did she know--

Breathe, Tony.

No, fuck, no, please, no.

There's sand everywhere, just like back then in. In. In.

In his clothes, rubbing against his skin when he moves, feels like someone put a grinder to him. If he doesn't get out of this thing soon, he's gonna be rubbed raw, he'll look just like he feels, and he can't have that. No. Nope. Not Tony Stark. A Stark always looks his best. That's what Daddy always said.

 _Focus_!

Breathing, breathing sounds good. He should work on that, he's breathing too fast, it's too loud inside the suit, there's only his breathing, no FRIDAY, no one telling him, 'your HR is approaching worrying levels, boss.'

There's only Tony, and the darkness, and the sand.

He squeezes his eyes shut, holds his breath. Hermetically sealed, remember? Don't want to go running out of air too quickly. Pepper always told him Iron Man would be the death of him, and god, was she right. Tony'd like to tell her that, but she's too far away, completely out of reach. Even Stark Tech can't get reception where he is right now. Not that it matters, Pepper wouldn't pick up anyway.

Tony licks his lips. They're dry and cracked. There's sand between his teeth, he can taste it, can feel it grinding between his molars. It's everywhere; in his mouth, his throat, his ears, every orifice, itchy, dry and coarse. It clogs his throat, clings to his mucosae. He wants to retch, but he can't. He's back there. He never left. The sand is everywhere, right around his sternum, a dark red sludge clinging to his skin, black beneath his nails, in every wrinkle of his fingers, the fingers wrapped tight around the battery, the thin cables connected to his chest, vanishing beneath his skin, so fragile, those cables. One wrong move and they're gone. No, don't touch him. Let him go, no, please, don't--

There's pain, his head feels like it's getting squeezed into mush by a hydraulic press, pressure on both sides of his head, something's pulling on his ears, his head, it's going to be ripped off, they're going to rip his head off--

Air.

Tony sucks it down greedily, coughs and splutters. He feels dizzy, but the sand is gone and there's only air. Wind tugging on his hair. Light on the other side of his closed eyelids. Groaning, he lets his head fall back and takes his time to breathe, counts down from fifty until his heart rate has reached some semblance of normal again.

It's fine.

The darkness is gone, the helmet is off, he's not going to die a horrific death in his hermetically sealed, yet somehow fucking _sand-filled_ suit, isn't going to choke on finely granulated rock and mineral particles.

He's still alive, he's not in the cave. It's fine.

“I'm fine,” he says, drags his voice over the shards and barbed wires and through the desert in his throat.

“Are you truly?” Thor asks and Tony cracks one eye open. Finds him kneeling next to him, Tony's helmet cradled in his giant paws, like some futuristic skull, its eye slits black and lifeless.

“To be or not to be,” Tony murmurs and chortles. Coughs. He can still taste the sand, but when he drags his tongue over his teeth, there's nothing.

Thor drops the helmet carelessly and Tony really should say something about that. He would, if he still gave a shit and wasn't riding the high of not-dying.

“You speak in riddles, Stark,” Thor tells him, eyebrows furrowed as he leans in, thick fingers dragging over the sleek plating of Tony's suit in search for the emergency release. Tony tries to shrug, but his shoulders move barely half an inch before the inside of the suit brings them to a sudden stop.

“Yeah,” he says. “Never heard that one before. There should be a, bit more to the left, behind the-- thanks.”

With a hiss, the suit releases and falls away in its many, many different parts and Tony feels suddenly weightless, like he wouldn't need a suit to fly, like the next gust of wind will pick him up and carry him away from here. He rolls his shoulders, moves his fingers and toes, takes a deep breath and feels his rib cage expand wider than the suit would allow. Then he takes the offered hand and lets Thor pull him back to his feet. He doesn't stumble because his knees feel like jelly, but if he did, neither of them comment on it. Thor's hand around his elbow is just a gesture of friendly support.

“Are you fine?” Thor repeats after a moment, eyes intent and unblinking and so terribly earnest that Tony is about to forget his aversion to sand and imitate an ostrich just to not have to look at that face any longer. Instead he uses another survival tactic, one that's been handed down his family line for generations; he grins and winks, because Tony Stark doesn't need an arc reactor, he could illuminate an entire city with his Billionaire Playboy Philanthropist smile if he just wanted to.

“Yeah, sure. I'm fine. Better than fine,” he declares and pats Thor's shoulder, pulls his hand back as if burned when he notices it's still trembling. Quickly, he bends over and pats down his legs to get the sand off his jeans. Fucking sand.“Don't worry that pretty head of yours. I'm enjoying myself, haven't had that much fun in ages.” He stops and then straightens, cocking one brow at Thor. “Say, if you're Hamlet, does that make me Horatio? I sure as hell hope so, cause that means I'll at least survive this shithole.”

The furrow between Thor's brows returns. “You are avoiding answering my question.”

“A-yup,” Tony says and then turns away, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looks over their surroundings. “So, where are we going? I see dunes, dunes and even more dunes. This place is in desperate need of a re-design. Unending deserts of doom and desperation are so 2008.”

When Thor doesn't react, Tony turns back to him and finds himself at the receiving end of a scrutinizing stare. And Tony hates it, this feeling like Thor's looking right through his empty patter and sarcasm, prodding at the masks and walls and billion megawatt smiles with his genuine concern for a comrade. Hates it because he thinks he can't take much more of it before all these defenses Tony's built over decades will come down and tear him open and everything that's been so carefully locked away will pour out. It will just spill out of Tony and into the space between them, words and tears and screams, and he will never be able to put them back behind his barriers, it will be out there and he can't take it back and Thor will finally know who he really is. He will know that Tony Stark is a pathetic, worthless puddle of neuroses and issues, barely held together by the desperate need to redeem himself, and the handful of good things that have happened to him.

After a second or maybe an eternity, Thor sighs and finally looks away, gaze searching the horizon for something, anything but the sand all around them.

“It does not matter which direction we choose,” he tells Tony then. “This realm knows no laws but the will of its Queen.”

“Well, that's reassuring.”

“It truly is not.”

Tony heaves a sigh and crouches down beside the suit to take one of the gauntlets and pick at its parts. “All right, Mr Optimism. Just give me a moment to see if I can salvage anything from this steaming pile of useless crap and we can be on our merry way.”

 

0.1

Thor appears out of thin air four months after the whole Sokovia Accords disaster. One moment there's nothing and the next the perimeter alarms go off all at once and start blaring, making Tony jump and knock his head against the inside of the sixth version of an exoskeleton he's welding together for Rhodey.

He startles a second time when Vision's head appears right between his feet, causing him to stumble back and over the cable of his dropped soldering iron. He ends up sprawled on the ground with Vision hovering awkwardly over him and the alarm announcing 'intruder alert' on an endless loop.

“Fuck, shit. FRIDAY, will you turn that stupid thing off,” Tony yells while he climbs to his feet, rubbing his ass. “And bring up the camera feed.”

The alarms are muted immediately and FRIDAY minimizes the blueprints and data spreadsheets that had been open on every available screen to make room for the video feed.

“My apologies. It's,” Vision begins but is promptly cut off by Tony.

“Well, fuck me sideways, _now_ he's showing up? Now that everything's over and done?”

The gaudy red cape and the gleaming armor may have been swapped for a set of simple leather clothes in earth tones, but there's no way Tony wouldn't recognize the ten feet tall surfer god. “FRIDAY, call Peter back, I don't want to have to explain to May why her nephew is sporting a bruise the size and form of Mjölnir when he's supposed to be going on coffee runs like any good intern.”

“Yes, boss.”

Tony makes to leave the lab, only hesitating for a moment when he walks past his repaired suit. For a second, he toys with the idea of donning it, but ultimately decides against it. He's punched enough Avengers to last him a lifetime,thank you, he doesn't need to add to the list. And while he wouldn't say no to having another go at Ste-- Rogers, that's a completely different thing and between the two of them. Nonetheless, he's glad Vision follows him out of the lab and outside onto the lawn where Thor's waiting patiently, hand resting loosely on the pommel of his hammer.

“Your Highness,” he drawls and is satisfied when he catches the corners of Thor's mouth twitch downwards. It might be petty, but Tony isn't up for pleasantries right now.

“Stark,” Thor greets carefully, inclining his head. “Vision. It is good to see you are well.”

“Good day, Thor,” Vision says with one of his almost-there smiles. “How are you?”

“Yes, well, he's doing fine, thanks. We're all doing fine,” Tony interrupts, waving one hand dismissively. “What brings you to the backwater planet of the galaxy? Just checking we haven't succeeded in killing each other, yet?”

Thor's frown deepens. “I was sad to hear my comrades were fighting one another, and believe me when I tell you that I would have come to all your aid, had I been able to,” he offers and somehow manages to sound genuinely hurt and sad, but also reproachful. “But my own people needed me—and still do.”

“We understand,” Vision assures. “There is no need for apologies.”

“Speak for yourself,” Tony mutters and clears his throat, pushing his hands into his pockets. Thor either didn't hear, or simply ignored him, for his face lights up a fraction with his smile. Tony's very proud he resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Fine, whatever.” He raises his hands in a what-can-you-do gesture. “I guess this isn't a social visit. So how can we help you?”

The question wipes the smile off Thor's face and replaces it with the look of a kicked puppy, all sad eyes and frowny mouth. Sometimes, Tony's surprised at how good he is at finding exactly the right things to say to make people look like that.

“I propose we continue this conversation inside,” Thor says with all the gravity of someone announcing the immediate apocalypse. “My brother's machinations have cost my people and I fear he is not yet satisfied. Dire times are upon us, my friends.”

Great.

 

2

Tony's sweating buckets. He's thirsty and itching everywhere, and that dune over there looks worryingly familiar. Wonderful.

“Hey, big guy. You think we might be running in circles?” Thor opens his mouth but Tony shakes his head before he can say something. “Nah, don't answer that. I know, 'this realm knows no laws but yadda yadda.' Well, I know we're getting nowhere right now.”

Crossing the last steps between them, Tony comes to a halt next to Thor and bends over, propping his arms on his knees. “Gimme a minute.”

They've been running around for what, a day? Two? It's hard to tell with the way time stretches and bends here. There's a sun high up in the sky, but that means jack shit because the thing hasn't moved an inch since they stepped into this nightmare. With the way Tony's feeling, it might as well have been a week. While the endless crawling through sand is getting to Tony, Thor still looks about the same, if a bit sandy. Which shouldn't be a surprise, really, since Tony's only a measly mortal and Thor is an alien princeling revered as a god. It pisses him off to no end anyway.

By now, Tony is badly sunburnt and drenched in sweat. His skin is raw and red, as if he'd been rubbed down with sandpaper. His feet are blistered and his throat is as dry as this godforsaken desert. He's also pretty sure he reeks like the hobo that keeps going through the trash outside Tony's favorite hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant. Thor on the other hand looks like he's on his way to a Dune-inspired Playgirl photo shoot. Fifteen feet of muscle wrapped in leather, he stands proud and peers towards the horizon, golden mane dancing softly in the breeze. He looks like the hero of an epic, while Tony only got the role of snarky dead weight sidekick, here to provide comic relief as the main guy saves the day.

“You know what,” Tony spits and plops down on the sand, “screw this. I'm done playing hide and seek. I'm not taking another step. If she wants to kill us, I'll be right here.”

Beneath Thor's irritated grimace, Tony feels like a petulant child. Whatever, he's fucking done. Screw Thor and his fucked up family. Tony's got enough to do trying to solve his _own_ problems, he has neither the time nor the energy to go on wrestling anybody else's monsters, thanks.

“You are right.”

“What?”

Thor smiles, but it's kind of strained. No matter, Tony will take what he can get. “Could you repeat that? I think there's sand in my ears. I thought I just heard you say I was right.”

The right corner of Thor's mouth twitches even when he cocks one brow at Tony. Thor sinks to the ground next to him, his movements more fluid and graceful than Tony could ever hope to achieve. Bastard.

“You are right. We should rest and gather our strength.” Thor's smile turns apologetic. “Even after spending a lot of time in the company of the Avengers, at times I still forget that you do not posses an Asgardian's stamina.”

Tony snorts, somewhat bitter. “That's because most of the Avengers aren't puny mortals like myself, big guy. I mean, Rogers looks like he could be your long lost brother. Then there's an android, two top spies with a workout regime as mean as Fury's glower, two ex-military men, a witch that can throw around tanks with her mind, and the Hulk, which beat up both of the Asgardians he's met.” Tony shrugs and spreads his hands, palms up. “And then there's little old me. Sure, I've got the suit, but when I'm out of it, I can't keep up with you guys.”

And there's that intense stare again. Tony should've just kept his damn mouth shut. But he's tired and this goddamned desert puts him on edge with all the memories that keep on creeping up on him if he dares to let his mind wander even for a second. It makes him nervous, and Tony talks when he's nervous. To be fair, Tony always talks, he likes the sound of his voice, because—let's be real—it's a nice voice. But when he's nervous, he _blabbers_.

Thor's eyes are thoughtful as they trace his face until his gaze settles finally on Tony's eyes, and Tony would like nothing better than to look away, but he isn't a coward, no sir, not him.

“You are many things, Stark,” Thor says, always so fucking earnest, “but puny you are not.” He raises a hand to silence Tony when he opens his mouth to speak, smile softly amused. “Peace, friend. I will not lie to you and say that you are as strong as the Captain or as well-trained as the Widow and the Hawk. But you possess a mind worthy of Asgard's highest scholars. I have seldom seen its kind—if at all.”

Tony rubs a hand over his sternum, clearing his throat and looking away, somehow embarrassed by the praise. It's not that he's being praised for the first time—claiming that would be a lie of epic proportions and Tony is the last person alive to affect false modesty. He knows he's good—better than good, he's _awesome_. But Thor is. Thor is the prince of an alien race so advanced they use an Einstein-Rosen bridge for day trips. Tony's been hailed as one of the best before, but to hear the same sentiment from someone who's basically a God, well, that's new. Peering at Thor from the corners of his eyes, Tony checks his face for any traces of a lie or exaggeration. Yet there's nothing but sincerity and Tony wants to squirm like a twelve-year-old.

“Uh, naturally,” he drawls, and it isn't shaky, no it isn't. “I built the Iron Man suit in a cave from a pile of scraps, I'm amazing.”

Thor chuckles, eyes twinkling, and claps Tony on the shoulder with one of his giant paws. “That you are. Now, let us continue.” Rising to his feet, he offers Tony a hand, pulling him up like he weighs nothing at all.

“Thanks. Where to?” he prompts, not bothering to look around because he's already tired of seeing nothing but sand every which way.

There's a moment of hesitation before Thor speaks, and his voice is low and halting. “Perhaps we should enter the door that has just appeared behind you.”

“The _what_?” Tony twist around and there's indeed a door that definitely wasn't there before. A set of wide french doors, to be exact. In the middle of the desert, and no walls around them to hold them up. And they look oddly familiar. Huh.

Slowly, Tony walks up to the doors until he can make out a terrace and a sprawling, finely manicured lawn behind it. Yet, when he leans to the side to look around the wooden frame, there's only more sand behind the doors. Freaking magic.

Tony swallows, then looks over his shoulder at Thor. “You've got my back, right, big guy?”

Thor nods, face grim and right hand curling into a tight fist next to his hip.

“Let's get to it, then.” Taking a deep breath, Tony reaches out, shaky fingers wrapping around the doorknob. As soon as his skin touches the cool brass knob, a woman's voice can be heard from the other side of the doors, and Tony knows that voice, he knows it very well. It's in his nightmares and his memories, it's a voice that comes to haunt him when he's down, it's the voice of a ghost and it makes his heart drop like it weighs a ton.

“Tony,” the voice calls, “come here and show your father what you made!”

 

0.2

“So let me get this straight,” Tony says, “you let your brother—sorry, _adopted_ brother—Loki, the same guy who opened a portal for an army of alien soldiers in the middle of Manhattan and tried to enslave humanity, the guy who has a history of betraying you and your family, the genocidal maniac Loki, out of the prison _we_ helped you put him in because you needed help fighting space Elves?”

In his periphery, he can see Rhodey shift in his seat but ignores it as he continues, “you ask the guy as sane as Charles Mason and a sack full of cats instead of, I dunno, the Avengers for help and lo and behold! Loki betrays you, kills your father, takes his place, fucks shit up, and now you come to the Avengers, well,” Tony shrugs and makes a sweeping gesture around the room, “what's left of them, anyways—and ask _us_ to clean up your mess?”

Tony doesn't recall getting up from the couch, but when he stops talking, there's only a couple feet of space left between him and Thor. Tony's chest is heaving after his outburst, and his eyes are boring into Thor's. He's waiting—demanding an answer, a reaction, but Thor's eyes betray nothing. They are clear, open and unyielding, aren't even narrowed in reaction to the words Tony hurled at him. All those well-placed barbs melting off him like mud off a lotus.

The silence is deafening. You could hear a needle—

Something clatters on the tile floor and they whirl around towards Peter, whose eyes are large and startled. The bowl of cereals in his left hand is slipping, milk sloshing over the rim.

“Oh, oh! Sorry, whoops,” Peter babbles and juggles the bowl, catches the milk in it before it can splatter to the ground. “Got it,” he announces with a bright smile when he straightens again, but it quickly dims when no one comes forth with praise. Tony cocks a brow at him and nods at the spoon still on the floor.

“Sorry,” Peter repeats and bends over to retrieve it. “My fault. Ignore that and, and feel free to continue.”

“Oh, I'm all done!” Tony says grandly and turns back towards Thor, stabbing a finger at his chest. “But if I wasn't clear enough, there's no way in hell, I'm going to--”

“Peace, Stark.” Thor's thick fingers wrap around Tony's hand, squeezing just enough to make it uncomfortable but not yet painful. “I would have peace.”

And there is the reaction Tony had been working so hard to get. Thor's eyes are narrowed and hard, his body is as taut as a bowstring, straining to conceal the hot-headed temper Tony knows so well. The phantom feel of those same fingers wrapped around his throat resurfaces and he swallows compulsively.

“But there will be none if my father's essence is not returned to his body,” Thor continues, voice low but somehow incredibly loud in the silence. “My brother has not yet won this war against my people, but we are faltering.” He lets go of Tony's hand and straightens, the lines of his face smoothing out. But there's still a fire burning in his eyes and Tony has to struggle to not look away even if he's getting burned. “Now, it is not a matter of if, but _when_ he wins. And when he does, he will not be satisfied until all of Yggradsil bows down to him.”

A beat of silence after those ominous words.

And then: “I'll go.”

Tony whirls around. “No, you won't,” he says just as Thor adds, “nay.”

“Uncool,” Peter pouts and tries to cross his arms over his chest, only to be brought up short by his cereal bowl. He glares at it accusingly before he continues: “Why can't I go to Asgard and save the world? You don't want to go, Mr. Stark.”

“You can't go because you have homework, young man,” Tony says. “You're an intern, go and make coffee or photocopy something, because I'm not going to explain to your aunt that I sent you off- _world_ to save the universe.”

“That's so unfair,” Peter says and Thor raises a hand to quiet him.

“Your courage is commendable, lad. But Hel is not to be trifled with. You are too young--”

“Alright, stop,” Tony says, putting a finger in his ear and wiggling it. “I have to clean my ears, because I think I just heard you say _Hell_ is not to be trifled with, and that can't be right.”

Thor's smile is apologetic. “You have not misheard, Stark. To retrieve my father's spirit, we will have to enter Hel and face its queen.”

“O-kay,” Tony says and blinks. “FRIDAY?”

A hologram pops to life between Tony and Thor, two Wikipedia pages scrolling down. An image of a gray, barren land flits past.

“Keyword 'Hel' provided several search results,” FRIDAY intones. “Hel, location, underworld of the Norse mythology where those who did not die a heroic death reside, located in Niflheim, ruled by Hel, being, daughter of Loki, appointed ruler of Hel, location, by Odin All-Father. Her appearance is described as--”

“Okay. Good. Thank you, FRIDAY.” Tony sighs. Drags a hand through his hair. Again, both this time. He grunts. Nods. Rubs his eyes and then his mouth. “Okay.”

“Tony, are you--” Rhodey says and Tony barks a laugh. It sounds hysteric even to his own ears.

“No, I'm not having a crisis here. No. Just laughing at the irony of life and, well, Hell. Hel. Whatever.” He shakes his head. “You know what? I've said it before, I'll say it again, 'cause Thor's not the first to tell me to do it.

“I'm not going to Hell.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story and chapter titles are taken from William Ernest Henley's poem _Invictus_.


	2. in the fell clutch of circumstance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, leaving kudos, bookmarking and commenting. Getting all this positive feedback means a lot to me. I hope this next chapter will keep you hooked. ;)
> 
> (Btw, I watched Ragnarök, see End Notes for my thoughts on it, but beware of spoilers!)

3

Tony is eight years and three months old and he wants to be an astronaut.

'Cause space is totally _awesome_ , and Tony will be the first man on Mars. When Jarvis took him to the Hayden Planetarium for his birthday three months ago, Tony said he would be the first man in space, but apparently, some Russian had already claimed that title, and an American named Armstrong had been the first man on the Moon, so Tony has to be content with Mars. Which is okay, because space? So freaking awesome. All those stars and planets, and nebulae, and asteroids, and comets--

Space is _blowing Tony's mind_.

So of course he had to be part of the Young Inventors' Competition at the Hayden Planetarium, and he'd built the most amazing model of the solar system, complete with all planets from Mercury to Pluto moving around the sun. Tony's model is really, really cool and also 'extraordinary', as Jarvis says, because there's a little dial that you can turn and the planets will move into position, accurately showing where they'll be at the date you choose. So cool.

“Coming!” Tony calls and juggles with the model and his certificate for a moment before he has the model cradled against his chest and the certificate in his left hand so he can turn the doorknob and step out onto the terrace.

His dad, mom and Obi are sitting at the table. Maria smiles and gestures him over, Obi looks up for a moment to offer Tony a distracted smile before returning to his conversation with Howard, who doesn't even look up but continues staring into the depths of his tumbler of whiskey. Tony grimaces. He can't understand how his father can like that stuff, it's yucky and there's no way Tony will ever drink something like that.

Taking a few steps onto the terrace, Tony stops, then turns around. “Come on,” he tells Thor. “Close the door behind you, mom doesn't like bugs getting into the house.”

Thor blinks and hesitates for a moment, but then he steps through the door. He doesn't close it behind himself as Tony told him to do, but whatever, this time it's not Tony's fault if something gets in again, so he doesn't care.

“Howard,” Maria says as Tony makes his way over. She puts a hand at the small of his back and lets it rest there for a moment before she pushes Tony, gently, towards the two men. “Come on, darling. Show your father what you made.”

“Dad,” Tony says, but Howard doesn't react, just keeps on talking to Obi, who glances quickly at Tony and then back at Howard. Tony turns around to his mother, catches only a last glimpse of the hard line of her mouth and the flash of anger in her eyes before she looks back at him and smiles.

She tells him, “go on.”

Tony doesn't feel so good. He nods anyway, but his palms are sweaty and he's scared he'll drop his model. So he puts it onto the table in front of his dad and pushes it carefully towards him. Tony just wants his father to react. He's so proud of his model and he wants his dad to be proud, too--

A tinkling of ice against glass, a thump and a curse, and finally the tumbler rolls off Howard's lap and shatters on the ground. Behind Tony, Maria inhales sharply.

“I'm sorry,” Tony hurries to say, “I didn't--” And he is sorry. He didn't know that Howard had put the tumbler back on the table, hadn't seen it behind the model and pushed it right off the table onto Howard's lap, where it spilled its content right over the expensive suit his father's wearing. His father, who's now staring down at Tony through narrowed eyes. Who's grinding his teeth in anger and reaching out towards his son.

Tony flinches and feels the certificate being ripped from his hand. Howard barely glances at it before he uses it to dab at his soaked dress pants.

“Howard!” Maria hisses but Howard ignores her. He gets up from his chair, the certificate slipping from his lap and drifting lazily towards the ground.

“Excuse me, Obediah,” he says. “I will need to go change before we leave. Feel free to wait in the car for me.” With that, he stalks away, pushes past Thor, who's still standing next to the door. After a moment of hesitation and a curt nod towards Maria, Obi too takes his leave.

“ _Bastardo_ ,” Maria says under her breath and then follows, alternating between calling Howard's name and hissing more Italian bad words Tony's not allowed to use. He can hear them fighting through the door, Maria's voice is loud and sharp and angry, Howard's low and terse.

Tony looks at the certificate at his feet, the darker spots of whiskey spreading on it. He crouches down and picks it up. The sharp smell of the alcohol hits him as he brings it up close to his face, inspects the ink spelling out his name in cursive. _Anthony E. St--_ then it stops in a smudged blur. Tony's eyes burn and he squeezes them shut, tries to take deep breaths. The paper crinkles in his hands. With a wordless cry, he tries to throw the certificate on the ground. But its surface to weight ratio won't let him, denies him the satisfaction of seeing it hit the floor hard. Instead, it merely twirls in the air then lowers itself, slowly, towards the ground, slides a few inches before it finally lays still.

And Tony is still angry, oh so angry! He grunts, curls his hands to fists and grinds his teeth. He wants to-- wants to--

He grabs the model, doesn't even hesitate and pulls it off the table, takes it in both hands and lifts it over his head. This time, his projectile hits the ground with a nice and loud cracking sound. The small planets he'd painted and re-painted for hours until he was finally satisfied spill every which way.

Tony gasps. His anger, barely a second ago burning as hot as a fire, is gone, extinguished as easily and quickly as a candle. All that's left is a hollow and cold feeling in his chest as he stares at the cracked model in front of him.

“No,” Tony breathes. “No, no, no.”

He falls to his knees, reaches out to the small marble that was Jupiter slowly rolling away from him. His hands find only sand.

Tony shouts and shoots up to his feet, stumbles on the yielding ground. The world tilts around him, dragging him sideways. He's eight and forty-six years old, he can smell the whiskey on his fingertips and feel the sand on his palms. He clutches his head, pulls at his hair and feels the sting. Every breath burns its way down into his lungs, but it feels like there's no oxygen at all in his system. His head is throbbing, trying to process what was, is, iswas. Wrong, wrong, everything is so wrong. Sand, everywhere, on his skin, in his clothes, rubbing him raw. Smell of sweat and grass and mom's perfume, whiskey, cologne. Paper against his fingertips and not. Hard and unmoving tiles of the patio and treacherous, shifting dunes beneath his feet.

He falls, tumbles, twists and turns. Arches his back and digs his fingers and heels into the sand. Mouth is dry, eyes burn, lips cracked. Tastes salt on his tongue. Wet cheeks. Sand between his teeth. Can't compute, can't, too--

He only realizes he's screaming, yelling half-formed thoughts trying to escape the madness of his mind, when he stops because he has to cough until he needs to retch. There are hands other than his pushing and pulling at him. He bats at them but he's too exhausted and confused to muster the strength to push them off. He's pulled up onto all fours and would have fallen face first into the sand if the hands weren't holding him up by his shoulders.

His whole body is shaking as he coughs up sand and bile.

Slowly, he comes back to himself and it feels terrible. The tunnel vision widens, the dark edges retreating until he can see the world shift back into place. He stares at the dark puddle on the ground between his hands with morbid fascination as he counts his breaths. Thor is a silent but reassuring presence beside him and Tony hates it. Hates it so much that Thor _saw_.

“That bitch,” Tony grunts and spits, raises one shaking arm to wipe it over his mouth. Tremendous effort, everything hurts. “That _fucking_ _bitch_.”

Plucked the memory right out of that deep, dark corner it had been banished to. Dove into his mind and dug around for the things that hurt so much. Went straight for the daddy issues, the feeling of not being enough, ever. Eight years old and a fully functioning model of the solar system, Jesus fucking Christ, but not enough for Howard.

Oh no, never, never enough.

And Thor _saw_.

Tony pulls one leg underneath him and tries to get up, but his wobbly knees and Thor's hands on his shoulders stop him. He sits back on his heels instead and squeezes his eyes shut and counts to ten. Blinks them open and he's still there. The fucking sand hasn't swallowed him up yet, because nothing ever happens the way Tony wants it to.

Thor's touch is light and barely-there, just a brush of calloused palms against his naked, sun-burnt shoulders, but his hands might as well weigh a ton for the way Tony feels pinned down by them. He feels awful.

Violated.

The silence is stifling and he racks his brain for something, anything to fill it.

“Your niece sucks,” he rasps and there's a snort behind him, startled and short. Still, it sounds warm, good, better than the silence. Feels like a balm as it cozies up to Tony's flayed heartstrings. He grasps at this little noise of mirth, wants to cradle it against his cold chest, hollow now that he's been turned inside out. “Come to think of it,” he continues, “your whole family sucks.” Because Tony talks, always, in any situation, especially those which are worst. He can't stop himself, because anything's better than silence.

The words are shaky and out of his mouth before he can think to stop them. “I mean I've only really met your brother so far, and his daughter just--” not going there, no “I thought _I_ had issues.” He laughs, and it's just this side of bitter. “Well, like I'm the one to talk. Not like you didn't just see...”

He trails off, clears his throat. “Good old dad. I won first prize for that stupid model, y'know? Not like he cared. Not then, not ever. Not when I graduated MIT at the top of my class with seventeen. Not when I brought home one award after the other so it could gather dust in the attic.”

Tony's rambling. He can't help it, can't make it stop. And the hands are still there, still on his shoulders, while Tony vomits out his daddy issues and why isn't Thor saying anything, can't he please, _please just make it stop?!_

He chokes on his next words when he's abruptly pulled back against something warm and hard. He flails, hands instinctively coming up to steady himself against the closest thing, which turns out to be Thor's arms, now wrapped around Tony's chest and middle, one of his giant paws splayed and resting on Tony's sternum. Thor's hand is warm, hot, heavy. Should feel restricting against _that_ part of his body, that little bit of skin and bones that had been metal and whirring reactor and now was new and still foreign. It's the first time, Tony thinks madly, since Afghanistan that someone had touched him there. Even Pepper had never. Never touched. Least of all when it was still blue and glowing and curiously cold, not even when it was warm and pink and new-but-also-old.

“Uh,” he says, because that's all he can come up with right now. Because that hand sends sparks right through his sternum up into his brain and fries his nervous system. “I. You. Um.”

“Anthony,” Thor's voice rumbles to life in his chest, Tony can feel it against his back. It's still barely more than a whisper right next to Tony's ear. “Stop.”

And just like that, he does.

 

0.3

Tony's banging around in his workshop—because what are you supposed to take with you when you're going to ye olde Norse version of hell?!—when Rhodey wheels into the room and remains, well, _sitting_ in front of the door, arms crossed over his chest.

Tony doesn't ignore him, per se, but neither is he going to start this conversation, because it's not like he wants to have it to begin with. Also, he still hasn't quite worked out what the fuck he's supposed to do now. Despite his protests, he's going to hell tomorrow, and sadly, the internet so far hasn't been very forthcoming with descriptions of the place. There was a lot of talk about Niflheim, Yggdrasil and some guy named Snorri. Also, cocks. The feathery kind of course, not the fun one.

Tony looks up and at the screen streaming the feed of the living-room camera where Peter appears to have overcome his first shyness and has toppled over right into hero-worship and is currently pelting Thor with questions. He's perched on the couch's armrest, almost vibrating with enthusiasm as he barely waits for an answer before asking the next question. All that's missing is the wagging tail to complete the image of an over-eager golden retriever. Tony feels himself smile and he takes a moment to watch the scene, gaze slowly trailing towards the other person currently occupying the couch.

Thor looks like he's been at the compound for months and not only the better part of a couple hours. He's sprawled out on the soft cushions, all leonine grace and easy smiles, one arm propped up on the Peter-empty armrest, mile-long legs stretched out in front of him.

Tony waves his hand at the screen and the feed vanishes.

“Tony,” Rhodey says but Tony's quicker.

“Sorry, Roadster. You'll have to keep the wheels until I'm back from saving the world, y'know, can't be helped.” Another gesture through the air and several web pages open up. He quickly flicks through them without reading. “Speaking of which, you reckon this'll be a fire-and-brimstone kinda hell, or more the ice and snow kind? Personally I'd go with the whole ice theme, seeing as we're talking Norse Gods and all. Then again, no one's ever bothered to take lessons in interior design from me. Even Pepper--”

And there he stops, kinda deflates. He has to steady himself against the workbench in front of him because he's just that pathetic.

The squeak of rubber wheels against tiles makes him straighten up again and rub quickly at his eyes. Rhodey's hand lands, awkwardly, somewhere on Tony's lower back because his shoulder is out of reach, because Rhodey's legs are another thing on the long, long list of things Tony just can't. Fucking. Fix. No matter how hard he's trying.

There's a question in the silence Rhodey's not asking and Tony's not going to answer because they already know.

Are you alright?

No.

Of fucking course he's not, how should he? Four months of Tony reading and rereading that stupid letter. Of prototype after prototype that he still somehow finds lacking because nothing will ever be as good as Rhodey's legs before. Before Leipzig. Before Vienna and those goddamn Accords. Before Tony thought he could make something to protect the world and his own creation went all Skynet on him.

'Cause that's just his life, right? Every time he tries to do something good, it does a one-eighty and explodes back in his face. The suits, Pepper, Ultron.

And this whole Asgard-saving venture is just the next thing on the list. Somehow he's going to find a way to fuck it up spectacularly. He should just give Thor that ancient flip-phone tucked away in the bottom drawer of his nightstand and send him off to Capt'n Worldpolice and be done with it. Steve would be helpful and perfect, would kick that Hel-Chick's ass to _proper,_ American, God-loving Hell and would look all heroic doing it.

Jesus, but this is a mess. _Tony_ is a mess. He just can't leave well enough alone and he's going to single-handedly bring Armageddon down on this world.

“This is getting awkward,” he says and Rhodey's hand falls away.

“Tony,” he says. And Tony can't count the times he'd heard his name said by that person in that way, since their days at MIT. A metric fuckton of times, if he'd had to guess.

Rhodey sighs and frowns, then shakes his head.

But he's Rhodey, Tony's best friend, and that's why he lets it go, albeit reluctantly, and says, “better pack your mittens. Wouldn't like those fingers to freeze off before you've put my new legs together.”

For a second it feels like the weight on Tony's shoulders eases up a little bit. Just a little reprieve. Because Rhodey knows him, has known him for a long, long time. Knows of all the baggage Tony's dragging around with him, all the issues and nasty neuroses. And strangely enough, Rhodey's not run for the hills yet. He's there and sometimes, only sometimes, Tony will allow to share some of his baggage. Only a bit of course. Wouldn't want him to get buried beneath it.

Especially now that it takes only half the time to bury Rhodey beneath anything.

Tony grins and makes a great show of putting a hand over his heart. “You wound me, Hot Wheels. You know I could build you a whole new body with my hands tied behind my back.”

Rhodey laughs and makes to punch him, but Tony easily steps around him and grips the handles of his wheelchair.

“Ah, ah, ah. Don't start what you can't finish, Matchbox. I'm not above stealing your ride and leaving you to belly crawl your sorry ass around the compound.”

Rhodey raises his hands in defeat, still grinning and voice full of laughter. “Alright, Mr. Stank. Leave the cripple alone.”

Tony pushes down on the handles and makes the chair balance precariously on its wheels until Rhodey starts to squirm and paw at Tony's shoulders.

“You know I won't,” he says, and it's a promise and a plea.

“Yeah,” Rhodey says and squeezes Tony's shoulder. “Yeah, I know.”

 

4

They're walking. Again.

It feels like another day has passed, but the sun's still up there, merrily burning away Tony's epidermis. Thor, on the other hand, looks even more like a surfer-god, all Point-breaky and sun-kissed, and Tony hates him just a little bit.

Or maybe not enough.

For a second he's caught in a memory; warm solid chest against his back, broad palm and thick fingers on his sternum. He shudders. Rubs a hand over his forearm and winces. Unbidden, his gaze settles on Thor's broad back in front of him.

“Thor,” he says and Thor stops, turns around. There must have been something in Tony's voice, because Thor's face is expressionless, carefully neutral, and he doesn't speak. Just waits, patiently, for whatever Tony has to say. Tony squeezes his left arm with his right hand until it hurts and looks at his feet, clears his throat.

“Thank you,” he finally mumbles. “For. Y'know.”

There are more words itching in his throat but he bites down on them until his jaw aches. The urge to ramble is strong, half-formed excuses and self-deprecating jokes stumbling over one another in a mad dash to come out first. But they're all cut off when a hand— _that_ _hand, broad and warm and strong—_ lands on his left shoulder, makes him flinch and jerk his gaze away from his sandy shoes and up (and up and up) towards Thor's face.

“You are most welcome, Anthony,” Thor says, earnestly, always, wears his feelings and thoughts on his sleeve for the world to see. Because he's strong and smart and invincible, doesn't need to hide behind snark and shit-eating grins and the lie that 'everything's fine, what are you talking about?'

Tony exhales, feels like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Tony,” he says, manages not to stumble over these two syllables, because, fuck, that would be pathetic and even Tony has standards. He swallows the rest, the sardonic 'else I might think I've done something wrong'—or worse: 'only my father ever called me Anthony'.

“Tony,” Thor says, slowly, draws it out, rolls it around on his tongue like a oenophile would do with wine. Tony Almost. Almost wants to say Thor savors it and that thought, _that thought_ _right there_ , Tony, will be the fucking end of you.

It's an epiphany, and Tony almost wants to laugh. What a fucking genius he is that he's been so god-damn blind, what a disgrace.

Jesus.

Fuck.

“Got it in one, Point Break” he says and feels the shit-eating grin slide onto his face with the slimy and disgusting sensation of a fat slug. God, he almost wants to punch himself to wipe it away, but he steps to the side instead. Ignores that his left shoulder feels way hotter than his right and that he already misses the touch. God damn it.

And Thor. Shit. Thor's staring, somewhat dejectedly, at his hand before he lets it drop to his side. Tony can almost hear the shutters clanking down, because he's an expert when it comes to that, and Thor's face is again expressionless when he looks at Tony.

“Do you need to rest?” he asks, and while a part of Tony wants to bristle at the suggestion that the puny mortal needs a break to keep up with the ten feet surfer-god, another, smaller, traitorous part wants to preen because is that _concern?_ Forget punching himself, Tony needs a good, hard repulsor blast to the temple so everything can be knocked back in place.

But as much as he wants to beat his brain into a reset, that would be a very bad idea right now. And so he simply waves Thor's suggestion away.

“I'm fine,” he says. “I've almost gotten used to all the,” he gestures at the never-ending dunes of despair, and finishes lamely, “sand.”

Thor doesn't look convinced. But Tony, always, can do one better.

“Tell you what. I might actually miss it when we get back.” He wrinkles his forehead. “Maybe we should relocate the Avengers HQ to the desert. It's a good natural defense system. No one would actually  _want_ to go there.”

There's a warm, comfortable feeling spreading in his chest when he notices the corners of Thor's mouth curl before his expression eases into one of mocked concern.

“While that sounds like a fine idea, I do wonder how Colonel Rhodes will get around,” Thor says and then grins like the little shit he is. And Tony can't breathe with the way Thor's whole face lights up with his mirth. Jesus, but Thor has no concern at all for Tony's poor old heart.

He doesn't know what to say, can't rally enough brain-cells for a proper retort.

It doesn't matter anyway, because the bitch-queen of Hel doesn't seem to like how things are developing, and for once, Tony agrees with her.

Her way of solving the problem, however, is not so appreciated.

Before Tony can say anything, the sky darkens, the wind picks up, and snow begins to fall. Which would be a welcome change, really, if it wouldn't come down all at once.

 

0.4

He actually needs a moment to get back in his suit.

“FRIDAY,” he says. And his girl, she can be a treasure, because she doesn't comment on the slight tremor in his voice, doesn't say anything at all, really, only activates the suit. The eye-slits light up, and there's the familiar crackle-hum of the reactor. A new, improved reactor, encased in the hardest materials he was able to find. He raps his knuckles against it, two sharp taps. Then spreads his fingers, puts his palm over the blue glow until it's covered, turns the edges of his hand a glowing red.

The chest plate is new of course. He could have mended it, but it wouldn't have been the same. No welding could have returned its integrity. It would have been a weak spot, easy to target, easy to cave in with just the right amount of pressure. Better to tear the whole chest-piece off and swap it out for a new, better one. One that wasn't dinged and scratched and worn to hell. He traces the non-existent scar into the chest plate, is lost for a moment in the memory, sees again Cap's, no, _Howard's_ shield ( _That shield doesn't belong to you. You don't deserve it. My father made that shield!_ ) come down on his chest. Hears the grinding of metal on metal, the crack-tinkle of the security glass giving way, the stutter-stop of the reactor.

He rubs the heel of his right hand over his chest, pushes it against his aching sternum. The pain is numb, most of the time, more an echo of past agonies.

Tony drops his hand. Clears his throat. He raps his knuckles against the head plate, tells FRIDAY, “open up.”

The head plate slides back and the suit wrenches open, arms and torso and legs, its insides laid bare. Tony gets in, fits himself inside the armor, this space he's carved out only for himself.

'I am Iron Man,' he'd told the world ages ago, and he's never said anything so true before or after. It's a new law in his existence. Tony Stark is Iron Man is Tony Stark is Iron Man. There's no separating them.

Getting back into the armor feels like coming home, like putting on a second skin. The suit hisses shut around him, and for a second there's darkness and the reactor's hum in the silence.

Then the HUD flickers to life, and FRIDAY says into his ear, “welcome back, boss.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very proud of Tony's pet names for Rhodey, made them all up meself.
> 
> [SPOILERS]  
> So I finally watched Thor: Ragnarök and I really enjoyed it. It was fun, I dig the 80s neon and synthwave aesthetic, all the humor, loved that Loki has returned to his anti-hero ways. It's nice.  
> Didn't really feel like a Thor-film, though. More like a Guardians spin-off, y'know? Tone and pacing were a bit off, too. I really didn't care for what happened on Asgard because the whole Thor & Hulk playing at gladiators spiel was way more interesting. The Asgard-scenes felt like a distraction. Thor and Loki making up was nice but felt like, super rushed?
> 
> You see, what I expected after how The Dark World ended was waaaaaay darker. I expected Loki causing havoc and mayhem with his children, instead I got Guardinans-level humor, soundtrack and aesthetics. It just felt off.  
> ALSO do they all _always_ have to have a witty comeback? Do they _never_ take anything seriously? Watching the three siblings interact was like the world's lamest contest of "look how witty we are". I mean, sure, it's a comic movie not a drama. But wow.  
>  Hela being Odin's slighted daughter is fucking lame btw.  
> Thor and Jane breaking up off-screen and Thor being all "I dumped her, look how much I don't care" after they played up their romance in the second movie so hard was a disgrace.
> 
> ALSO RIP WARRIORS THREE AND WHERE THE FUCK WAS SIF JFC  
> ALSO ALSO I SEE MY MAN HOGUN GETTING EXTRA SCREENTIME BC HE DIDN'T GET SO MUCH IN THE SECOND MOVIE  
> ALSO ALSO ALSO WHAT THE HELL VOLSTAGG'S AND FANDRAL'S DEATH WAS SO ANTI-CLIMACTIC IT HURT (and Thor didn't give a flying fuck)  
> (also also also also, I saw you Matt Damon and my bf didn't want to believe but I KNEW)
> 
> So, tl,dr: Thor was enjoyable if you see it as a Guardian's spin-off and not the third installment of the Thor series. Then it's a fucking mess.


	3. under the bludgeonings of chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took forever, so thank you for the wait. I rewrote the first part of this chapter about a 100 times and just couldn't continue for a while.  
> I'm sorry if I made you think I might have abandoned this fic, but I will finish this little story. It might take me a bit, so please bear with me. I am sorry I kept you waiting and thank you for returning to read it. Also, hello to new readers! I hope you'll like it.
> 
> Oh yeah, Happy Holidays!

5

“Shit,” Tony says and gets a mouthful of snow as reward. He splutters and wipes at his face, squints his eyes against the onslaught of cold whiteness. He can barely see, the snow is a thick wall of fat flakes whirling around him. One hand in front of his face, he uses the other to feel for a way ahead. He calls for Thor, but it's immediately swallowed by the blizzard, whisked away and carried off into the storm.

One step forward. Forward? People walk in circles when lost, don't they? Where was he even going before this, where does he want to go now? Does it matter? All he knows is he can't stay here and where the hell is-- shit. Where-- Shit shit shit!

A warm hand clasps his wrist, hot against his coldwet skin. He stumbles, gets pulled sideways and against Thor's unyielding body. Tony's so relieved he wants to crumple against him. He claws at the first thing he can reach: leather slick with snow, and wet wool. Thor's arm is around his shoulders, pulling Tony flush against him and squishing one of Tony's arms awkwardly between them. He couldn't care less, holds on for dear life because if they get separated, this might be the end, he might never find his way out of here, never return home. Fuckfuckfuck.

Thor drapes his sodden cloak over them, does his best to shield them against the snow, but Tony still barely makes out his words.

“What?!” he yells and then Thor's mouth is right against his ear, each word a warm puff of air against his skin.

“Light,” Thor tells him. “Behind you. Follow me.”

Tony nods mutely. There's a bit of an awkward shuffle as Thor tries to move him in the direction he wants to go and Tony doesn't move but rather keeps on clinging to Thor. He's a bit slow on the uptake right now.

They stumble towards somewhere. Tony can't see and cares even less. He trusts Thor to know where they're heading and focuses on stopping his whole body from violently shaking. He feels like he might shatter and Thor's arm around him is the only thing holding him together. So he focuses on that; the warmth, the weight, the vise-like hold of Thor's fingers around his upper arm. It grounds him, lets him take one step after the other.

The howling of the wind fades to the background, the sting of the cold turns muffled, as if Tony's been wrapped in a layer of cotton. The only parts of him left bare are where Thor's touching him, the sensation of skin on skin sharp and singular in comparison.

There it is.

Light.

It's not much, but he will catch glimpses through the whirling wall of snow. He points towards the light and turns to look at Thor, but they're much too close for him to move his head freely. His temple drags along Thor's whiskery jaw. Tony misses a step, stumbles. Thor pulls him closer, steadies him before they continue on.

There's about a foot of snow now, Tony's sinking into it up to the middle of his calves. He let's himself be dragged along. The way ahead of them stretches, feels endless.

Until it doesn't. One moment the light is only an orange flicker between the snow, the next it's right in front of them, bright and warm and comforting. Tony's manhandled behind Thor. He doesn't protest. A few more steps and suddenly they're out of the snow. The howling doesn't stop but drops in volume and the onslaught of icy crystals ends.

Tony pushes a shaky hand through his hair, blinks against the droplets clinging to his lashes. He looks around.

And laughs.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Thor glances at him but doesn't comment, just stalks deeper into the cave ( _cave! God fucking--_ ), steps around the fire and peers into the shadows as if he expects something to jump out at them. Meanwhile, Tony busies himself with having a meltdown at the entrance of the damn cave and is seriously debating taking his chances with the fucking snowstorm.

He really, really hates caves.

“We are alone.”

Tony blinks up at Thor. Exhales. “Good.” Clears his throat. “Great. Perfect.” His voice is raspy, all scratched up by the shards of his shattered dignity. Freaking perfect.

Thor's eyebrows draw together and his gaze drops to Tony's chest. Tony wonders what he's looking at until he glances down and finds his right hand cramped up against his sternum, clenching and unclenching around his shirt. It takes a second to make it stop. Another to let it fall to his side. Thor opens his mouth and Tony drags in air through his teeth, enough to fuel his excuse, but--

“We should warm up at the fire,” Thor says and glances over Tony's shoulder at the storm still raging outside. His smile is a fickle thing, barely there and swiftly gone. “This surely is no gift from Hel, but we should take this reprieve whilst we might get it. Come.” He wraps one paw around Tony's shoulder and pushes him further into the cave and towards the fire. Tony lets him and sits down.

For once he's silent. No quips, no sardonic remarks. The fire casts dancing shadows across the walls. It looks like the cave is a breathing, living thing around them. Tony drags a hand across his brow and shudders, eyes squeezed shut.

He's jostled when Thor sits down right next to him, not even an inch of space between them.

“Um, wha--”

Thor smiles, innocently but for that little glint in his eyes, that little bit of teeth showing. “We should share our body heat,” he says and unclasps his cloak. It drops to the ground with a wet smack. When he starts to pull off his sodden shirt next, Tony looks away, mouth suddenly dry.

He shifts a bit, caught between getting further away and at the same time closer to the heat at his side, when there's the sound of metal scraping over stone. When he looks towards the origin of the noise, he finds the gauntlet he'd scavenged from his useless suit on the ground next to his left hip. He'd forgotten all about that.

Now he picks it up, turns it around in his hands. There's a small catch he loosens with his fingernail. A panel opens and he takes out his emergency toolkit, gets to work. This is safe, good. It's science, and Tony is a man of science. He understands it because it follows rules. A plus B equals C, and not oranges. It's predictable.

Not like feelings, or people. Or demi-gods.

The small screwdriver slips and Tony mumbles a curse. Damn him for being so thorough, just one screw left before he can get to the miniature arc reactor inside. He needs to check it for damage. The big one in the suit was deactivated by Her Bitchness—and he still doesn't know how she managed _that—_ but this one might still work. Usually he'd have FRIDAY check it, but his girl is out of order and he'll have to do it the old-fashioned way.

The screw finally stops being stubborn and comes loose. He cracks the gauntlet open, looks over its insides, pokes at the cables connected to the small reactor. Tony exhales through his teeth when it doesn't hum to life. “Just like old times,” he says. “Caught in a cave with a heap of junk.”

“You have been in this situation before?”

Tony fumbles, catches the gauntlet but lets the screwdriver drop. Thor reaches over and picks it up. He looks at it with amused curiosity and Tony realizes that it might seem as crude to him as a stone-age tool would seem to Tony. He wants to bristle at that, 'cause he's not the one looking like he just came from a Ren Faire, but he can't find it in himself. For one, Thor is highly advanced alien royalty, so he has every right to find Tony's tool primitive, and two, Thor is indeed still shirtless.

So he says, “what was that?”

Thor rolls the screwdriver between his fingertips, drops it and catches it again between index and middle finger, lets it dance over the back of his fingers, up and down. It's a neat little party trick meant to hint at his nimbleness and dexterity. It's working. Tony hates him just a little bit.

“You said, 'just like old times'.” The screwdriver twists on the back of Thor's thumb. “So you have been in this situation before.”

Tony snorts.“You could say that.”

The screwdriver stops spinning, caught again between Thor's fingers. He offers it back to Tony, handle first. “How so?”

Tony clears his throat. He takes the screwdriver, gaze dropping back to the dark reactor in his lap. His vision blurs slightly and he can almost see that first version, exposed copper wires and all.

 _Proof that Tony Stark has a heart_.

He rubs at his sternum, at that sharp spike of phantom pain, shrapnel tearing through tissue.

“My apologies,” Thor says and Tony startles. “I did not mean to intrude.” His mouth is pinched, his brows drawn together. He looks like he means it, because he always does. He looks hurt, too, and Tony wants to throw himself into the fire, or run out into the blizzard, or, or.

Crawl into Thor's lap and kiss it better.

Jesus.

He does none of that, because he's a fucking adult with impulse control, thank you very much. And adults, they talk, don't they, about feelings, and trauma—at least that's what Pepper says, and Pepper is always right. So maybe. Maybe, Tony could talk, for a change. And not just talk, but _talk_ talk. About feelings. And trauma.

“It's.” He stops. Swallows. Wets his lips. Thor is silent, patient. A warm, calm presence next to him that makes his skin tingle and feel too tight. Tony drags a hand through his hair. “It's not a good story, so don't say I didn't warn you. Also, I'm lousy at telling it, haven't had much practice, really. I've only told Pepper. I think? Have I told Pepper?”

“Tony,” Thor says but Tony interrupts him before he can say more.

“Don't screw it up, Point Break, I'm trying to have a heart-to-heart with you. So,” he deflates a bit. “Just. Listen?”

Thor nods.

And Tony spills. Everywhere. Everything.

Now that the valve's been loosened there's no stopping.

He begins with the Jericho demonstration. Disgusted with his own smarmy showmanship and pride he doesn't linger. He tries to remember the name of the soldier that asked for a picture with him but comes up short. He should remember it, shouldn't he?

What he does remember is the pain. Not when the shrapnel struck but later, in the cave, when he first woke up. The fear, clinging to that damn battery because his life depended on it. It was like carrying his heart around on a platter, and all it needed was an angry or clumsy pull on one of the wires, and--

He talks about building his first reactor, and then the Mark I. About minutes of fitful sleep and hours of forging in the half-dark. About coming up with excuse after excuse why it was taking so long. About redhot iron held up closely to a face.

Saying Yinsen's name takes Tony a moment, telling how he died takes him several.

Retelling his rescue and return to the States on the other hand, is only an afterthought, no more than a short sentence.

The stream of words turns into a trickle and stops. Tony blinks and realizes he's been staring at the gauntlet's innards, cables like colorful sinews laid bare.

A broad hand slips into his line of sight and Thor takes the gauntlet from him, holds it close to the fire and inspects it. Tony lets him, watches. Drinks in his chiseled features, now drawn in concentration, painted in reds and oranges by the firelight. How strange, he thinks, that he could sit like this for hours, just watching Thor, the minute changes in his expressions, and never grow bored.

Tony likes machinery, data, spreadsheets. He can spend hours getting lost in equations and numbers. People, however, have never interested him much—disregarding a handful of exceptions. People and their wants and needs are messy. If a code doesn't work, there's a clear reason, a kink that needs to be worked out and erased. With people, there doesn't need to be a _reason_ , they can just decide not to do what Tony wants them to do and that's that. They're complex, layered like an onion, and each layer adds another level of complexity that guards the problem festering at the core.

Tony knows, because he's the biggest onion there is. A bunch of neurotic layers beneath a papery shell of eccentric billionaire demeanor trying to hide a big, fat, rotten center of daddy-issues and the desperate need to be loved the way he is.

“So it was not an exaggeration,” Thor says, one thumb dragging along a strand of wires towards the miniature arc reactor. “You saying you built your suit in a cave from a pile of scraps.”

He looks up and smiles, just an upward twist of the corners of his mouth, bracketed by a set of dimples. “Truly, you are a marvel, Tony.”

Tony swallows and licks his lips. Clears his throat. “Took you some time to catch up with the rest of the world, huh?”

Thor laughs, a rumble in his chest like the rolling of thunder in the distance. The air around them feels charged with electricity, makes the hair on Tony's arms stand on end. Like he's about to be struck by lightning.

“Were you of Asgard,” Thor continues, and his voice has no right, _no right_ , to sound like that, so. Deep, and rough, like the purr of a lion about to sink its claws into its prey. “Minstrels would sing of your victory. Your tale of glory would be shared at fires and in mead halls and your Ho Yinsen would have a seat at the table of our best in Vallhall!”

Tony laughs at the mental image of the soft-spoken, modest Yinsen caught in a gaggle of drinking, rowdy vikings. “I don't know if that would be his idea of a perfect afterlife, but I'll take it.”

Thor grins. “My people would teach him how to drink. It is what we do best.”

“If there's one thing I don't doubt, it's that.” It feels easy, this kind of banter. Like they've been doing it all their lives. Tony feels a bit safer now, like he's back on solid ground after an eternity of wading through sand.

Fucking sand.

Thor hums and then turns back to the gauntlet, tapping his thumb against the reactor's smooth, dark surface. “This feels,” he wrinkles his brows and hesitates, like he's searching for the right word, and finally settles on, “familiar.”

He shakes his head at himself, as if he's not completely satisfied with his choice.

Tony shrugs. “'Cause it is.” He knocks his knuckles against his sternum, where a slightly bigger version used to sit, a glowing heart of wires and metal cradled by his ribs. “It just a smaller version of the one powering the rest of the suit. A backup, for situations like this, actually.” He scoffs. “Just my luck it doesn't work because _magic_.”

“That is not what I meant,” Thor says, still thoughtful, eyes narrowed as his thumb rubs circles into the reactor's glass. “It feels--”

He never gets to finish his explanation. Just at that moment a tiny tendril of electricity sparks at the tip of his thumb, arcs, and plunges into the dark glass.

The reactor hums to life, blue light spilling over Thor's fingers.

“What the fuck,” Tony says.

 

0.5

Cup of freshly brewed coffee in hand, Tony steps out onto the patio. His bare toes curl against the cold tiles and he hisses.

“There was no talk about rain in today's weather forecast,” he says.

Thor looks up at him and doesn't even have the decency to look sheepish before he turns back towards the rain beyond the patio's overhang. It falls like a curtain, turning the trees around the compound into a blurry, gray mass.

Tony hesitates for a second, but then shrugs and walks towards Thor. What the hell. Even though the facility sports a big Avengers-A on its roof, it was still designed and paid for by yours truly. So he won't let himself be made to feel unwelcome in his own damn home. Not even by a brooding demi-god from ancient mythology. Especially when said god is currently sitting on _Tony's_ outdoor couch, thank you very much.

“Scoot over,” he says, flapping a hand at Thor. For a moment he thinks Thor won't, but then he sighs—the asshole, like Tony's the one having some sort of divine temper tantrum right now—and makes room. Tony sits down, legs stretched out in front of himself, ankles crossed. He blows on the surface of his coffee and stares at the fat droplets falling onto the grass, listens to them beating an unsteady, angry rhythm against the roof.

It's a bit chilly, but not uncomfortably so. The air has the crisp quality of early fall and helps clear his head as he breathes in deep. Tony feels himself relaxing into the thick cushions, warmed by the hot cup in his palms. The rain ceases to sound arrhythmic and angry and turns into white noise at the edge of his hearing as his thoughts wander.

They're leaving in a few hours. Tony should feel concerned, but he can't be bothered at the moment. He's been worrying enough, has checked the suit thrice and FRIDAY is running another round of diagnostics right now. There's nothing else to do but wait. Strangely enough, the nervous energy that had prevented him from catching him even a few hours of sleep and made him come out here, is all but gone. It's been reduced to a small prickle at the edge of his mind that won't quite leave but doesn't bother him enough to pace the workshop and dig through his tools another time.

Tony realizes belatedly that Thor has said something, and he needs a moment to drag himself out of the web of trailing thoughts he's found himself in. He blinks a couple of times to clear his blurry vision and looks at Thor, who's still staring at the rain. Notices that Thor doesn't look as tense as he did when Tony sat down. Huh.

“Come again?” he asks.

Thor hesitates, glances at Tony from the corner of his eyes before looking away again.

His fingers twitch around the large angular head of the hammer resting in his lap. Tony watches him lazily, follows the movement of calloused fingertips over the strange, knot-like patterns etched into the head.

“It gives me comfort,” Thor finally says. “Knowing that there is still something under my control.”

Tony glances at the rain, the fat black clouds above. Lightning splits them apart, paints the world blinding white and strikes the surface of the lake at the compound's edge. Sudden increase of pressure and temperature, produces rapid expansion of air, creates a sonic--

Thunder claps, deafening.

Tony grimaces. The sound echoes, bounces across the lake's surface and away.

“Showoff,” he says and slurps his coffee.

Thor smiles, but there's an edge to it. Something nervous and haunted. Like he's trying for Tony despite everything. Strange.

He should say something about that, should poke and prod with a sarcastic remark. Should. But won't. This feels important, somehow. They aren't friends, even if Thor sometimes gets a bit sentimental when he's tipsy from half of Tony's alcohol stash and waxes poetic about brothers in arms and some such bull. By that point Tony himself is usually well and truly sloshed and will agree with everything anyway. It's not like they still believe it when sober. They're colleagues, if you want to call it that. And sometimes they'll get wasted together, celebrating that they haven't died yet, y'know. The usual.

But this, Thor's confession, feels like. Like it has weight. Like they're at a turning point.

Tony doesn't know how to deal with that. He's not. Good. With feelings. Which might be the understatement of the century. But he has to say something, doesn't he? He thinks, wonders what Rhodey would say now.

Maybe: Everything will be alright.

Or: We'll get her.

Or: Jesus Christ, Tony, you suck at this.

Well, that last one might be Tony's inner voice, but he's not splitting hairs. Tony drags a hand through his hair, scratches the back of his neck. Sighs.

“Do you,” want to talk about it? Tony doesn't say, because he _sucks_. “Want a coffee?” he finishes instead. Thor actually looks surprised, which, hey, unfair, Tony's not that bad of a host.

Is he?

Doesn't matter. The corner of Thor's mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but Tony counts it as a win anyway. Now here's to hoping Thor won't take him up on his offer because the couch is surprisingly comfortable and getting up again feels like it would take a tremendous effort.

“A coffee would be nice.”

God damn it.

Tony looks at his cup and then shrugs, holds it out to Thor.

“Knock yourself out,” he says. Thor raises his eyebrows and Tony has a moment to feel stupid before Thor reaches out and takes the cup. In his big hand it looks like it's from a doll's china set, especially with the delicate way he's holding it. It's almost adorable.

Thor takes a sip and Tony looks away. Swallows around a suddenly dry throat.

It's till raining, but not as much. The rumble of thunder is far away, not as loud or angry as before.

“We should probably sleep,” Tony says and leans back to rest his head on the back of the couch.

“Probably.”

“I don't think I can.” He peers through squinted eyes at the rain, listens to its soft patter against the roof. Thor is silent. That's fine. Tony isn't in the mood to talk anyway.

He'll just rest his eyes for a bit.

Just for a...

 

6

The fire dies.

It's not a gradual process. One second it's happily crackling, the other it's gone, plunging them into darkness but for the reactor's blue glow.

Tony lunges for the gauntlet, because this is not good not good not good. Caves: shitty, but he can deal with that. Has dealt with that until about a second ago. Dark caves: complete and utter bullshit.

“C'mon, c'mon, c'mon.” He struggles into his gauntlet, fingers scrabbling over the metal plating until--

A hiss of hydraulics, the repulsor whines to life. Tony breathes again.

“Thor!” He points the repulsor in the direction Thor has just been in. Finds him standing there, face only dimly lit by the repulsor's light, and looking all the more grim for it. “What just--” Tony shakes his head. “Don't bother, I can guess. Hel.”

Thor nods, once, eyes scanning the darkness around them. Tony doesn't dare try the same, fearing Thor might vanish if he takes his eyes off him. He's just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It doesn't take long.

They both jump when they hear the voice.

“How touching.”

Just a few steps and they're back to back. Tony sends a repulsor blast into the darkness, bright enough to light up the cave for a second before it hits the wall ahead. It's not enough to make out another person in the tiny space. He powers it up again, lets a beam wander over the walls, but they're alone.

“But you always were the sentimental of the two of us,” the voice continues, bouncing off the walls so that Tony can't make out the direction it's coming from. That voice, he knows it, he's sure.

“Weren't you,” says the voice.

“You've got to be shitting me,” Tony groans when it finally clicks, just as the voice finishes with: “Brother.”

“Loki,” Thor breathes. Tony feels him shifting at his back and reaches for him, fumbles for something and finds Thor's side, hot and still bare against his palm. When Thor speaks again, he sounds less breathless. “Show yourself.”

“As if--” Tony doesn't get any further. Loki steps out of the shadows at their side, horned helmet and all, the fucking drama queen. Tony aims for the ugly helmet, but the repuslor blast goes right through the mirage and hits the wall behind it. Of fucking course.

Loki clicks his tongue and smirks. “Foolish mortal. Hush now while your betters talk.”

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” Tony scoffs. “What's this supposed to be? A haunting from the ghosts of Christmas past?”

“And would you not know all about that,” Loki drawls. “Look at him, Thor. Not yet has he seen half a century, but already he is old by his kind's standards. He is nothing without his armor and his toys. Take them away, and all you have left is a fearful child longing for the love of its father, riddled with self-doubt.”

Tony raises his brows. “You sure we're still talking about me?”

Loki sneers and Tony grins.

“Loki,” Thor says, and Tony almost flinches at the sound of his voice. It's rough and comes haltingly, as if he has to drag the words out of the depths of his pain. “Why are you doing this? What have we ever done to deserve this?”

“You are asking the wrong questions, Thor,” Loki says. “You should ask what _you_ , and _you_ _alone_ have done. Were you not the one that went to Jotunheim and broke the fragile peace the Allfather had won? Did not you bring me along and thereby had me find out my heritage?”

Loki draws a hand over his face, and where his fingers touch his skin, it changes from its usual paleness to an icy blue and scar-like markings appear on his forehead.

Thor shakes his head, face a grimace. Tony's still too distracted by the freakishly red eyes to say anything. Not that Loki is allowing anyone else to speak, anyway.

“And what did you do when the Allfather fell into the Odinsleep and Asgard was without a ruler? You spent your time with a mortal woman. The very same one _you_ would later bring to Asgard, for Malekith and his army to follow.”

“I did not--” Thor says in a rough whisper,

“Know?” It's Loki who speaks, but not with his voice. Tony stares as the mirage flickers and changes: Loki's sharp features soften to that of a woman, the black hair lightens to a warm brown that falls in waves over her shoulders. Tony doesn't know who she is, until Thor gasps, “Mother.”

“Mother?” Tony repeats.

The woman turns to look at him in the same way one might look at a cockroach. “Again you bring a mortal where they do not belong,” she says. “Have you not learned your lesson?”

Blood blooms at her side, spreads on her skirts until they are more red than blue. “How many Æsir will have to die before you will stop loving these mortals and understand their worthlessness?”

“Forgive me,” Thor says, and he sounds small and broken, and Tony wants to make it stop. Thor should be the last one to sound that way, so sad and hurting, so helpless. Thor is. Strong, and breathtaking. Loyal. He is so full of love for his people and his friends and comrades. And even for Tony, of all people. Thor doesn't deserve to be made to feel that way.

“This is bullshit,” Tony says and the woman sneers much like Loki had.

“You dare--”

“Oh, come on.” He rolls his eyes, affects more bravado than he feels. “You're giving me a headache. I feel like I'm watching a high school rendition of Shakespeare. That's bad, just so we're on the same page. Listen, when even _I_ think you're laying it on too thick, you're doing it wrong. Neat trick with the face, though.”

“Tony,” Thor says, and Tony turns around. It's stupid, maybe, _surely_ , but he turns his back on the apparition, steps between it and Thor and grabs him by the shoulders.

“No, listen. To me, not her.” Thor looks over Tony's shoulder at his ghost mother, but Tony shakes his head at him. “Don't. Look at _me_ , Thor.” Surprisingly, Thor does. Tony continues, “I don't know who she is, but she's not your mother. And even if, if she is, then she's _wrong_ , okay? She's wrong. It's not your fault Loki went off the deep end, literally. Or that Male-whatshisface decided he wanted to bring eternal darkness or whatever nonsense. You're not responsible for anyone's actions but your own. Okay?”

Thor opens his mouth, but Tony cuts him short. “I know what you want to say, I'm the last person that should tell anyone about letting their guilt go. But that's why I know--”

“Tony,” Thor says and grabs Tony's wrist, squeezes. “She has left.”

“She's--?” Tony turns his head, sees that they are indeed alone again. “Oh. Huh.”

Thor smiles. It's a small one, but it still makes Tony feel all warm and fuzzy.

“Alright,” he clears his throat. “Good.”

He lets go of Thor's shoulders, but Thor's still holding one of his wrists, so Tony's hand hangs loosely and somewhat awkwardly in mid-air. “Um.”

“Thank you,” Thor says, voice still a bit scratchy but not as filled with pain as before. Tony nods and licks his dry lips, glances hastily at their hands and away again. He doesn't know if Thor's aware, but he's rubbing circles into Tony's wrist with his thumb. It feels good, too good, and Tony should pull away because Thor is undoubtedly still upset and not in his right mind, or else he wouldn't. Wouldn't do. That.

Finally, he says something, because he has to, so, “Thor--”

Thor shakes his head, squeezes Tony's wrist softly. There's. Something. In his eyes as he looks at Tony. Something Tony could name but won't, because it's impossible, and dangerous.

“Thor,” he repeats, but still doesn't pull away. Because he's weak. So weak.

“Not yet,” Thor says, and lets finally go.

“Okay.” Tony says. And, “what--?”

“We should move on,” Thor says, as if the last minute hadn't happened. He walks towards his discarded clothes and picks them up. “The storm has stopped for now.”

Tony watches him, hand wrapped around his wrist as if that might capture Thor's warmth even after he has let go.

He's fucked. Completely and utterly fucked.

 

0.6

“Don't you have school?” Tony asks and peers over the rim of his sunglasses at Peter.

“Um, it's Sunday,” Peter says. He looks concerned for a moment when Tony only stares, and adds, “there's no school on Sundays?”

“I knew that.” Tony raises his brows at Rhodey's chuckle. “I went to school, too, you know.”

Peter twitches awkwardly. “Sure. Sir. I just thought, maybe,” he rubs the back of his head, squirming, “it was different when you were in school.”

Tony blinks. “Are you calling me old?”

“No, no, no, I'm sorry, that came out wrong, I mean--”

“How old do you think I am? Rhodey, am I old?”

“Ancient,” Rhodey says, the fucking traitor.

“Which is still fairly young by my people's standards.” Tony startles at Thor's voice. Thankfully no one notices, since everyone is busy staring at Thor stalking over the lawn towards them with the grace of the catwalk model he is. He doesn't look like someone who pouted on Tony's patio only a couple hours before. Tony digs the tip of his boot into the still rain-wet grass. Not a dream, then. “An Asgardian of Stark's age would barely be considered a man.”

“Wow.” Peter's eyes are as big as saucers. “What's the life expectancy of an Asgardian? Is it that much longer than that of a human—wait, your father, Odin, is he _the_ Odin? From the vikings? How--”

“Peace, my young friend,” Thor sounds and looks fondly amused at the barrage of questions. Tony swallows and rubs a hand over his beard. Peter shrugs, sheepish.

“Sorry, Sir.” He worries his bottom lip. “Does that mean you're older than Mr. Stark?”

“Hey,” Tony protests. Thor chuckles, looks at Tony from the corners of his eyes.

“By a few centuries,” Thor says. Like it's nothing. And walks off.

“No way,” Peter breathes. “No fucking way.”

“Language,” Tony says without heat and hurries after Thor.

“So, how are we doing this?” he asks as soon as he's caught up to Thor, who's stopped in the middle of the lawn. Tony blinks up at the sky, half expecting a rainbow-lightshow to plow down and whisk them away like he's seen with Thor before. He can't help feeling a bit excited at the thought. “You gonna call down that Bi-thingy?”

“Bifröst,” Thor says.

“Yeah, that.”

“Sadly, we have lost the Bifröst to my bro-- to Loki's machinations,” Thor explains without looking at Tony, frowning at the ground instead. He crouches down and takes something out of his satchel. Tony catches a glance of something small and shimmering before it's hidden by Thor's hand. “Interplanetary travel has become far more of an endeavor, and only few of us still hold the knowledge allowing it without the Bifröst.”

“And you are one of them?”

He waves the hand holding the thing over the ground in what looks to Tony like a random pattern, then gets up. “No.”

“No?” Tony throws up his hands. “Great. So that's that then. Thanks for stopping by.”

Thor frowns. “ _I_ may not know  seiðr, but that does not mean I came unprepared, Stark.” He glances at something over Tony's shoulder. “We may leave when you have said your goodbyes.”

“That doesn't sound ominous,” Tony mumbles and turns around. “At all.”

Peter, Vision and Rhodey are making their way towards them, Vision pushing Rhodey's wheelchair along while Peter is always a few steps ahead, caught between running over to Tony and Thor in excitement, and doing the polite thing by staying with them. Kid's too excitable for his own good.

Tony looks at Rhodey clinging to the wheelchair jolting over the uneven ground. Peter bouncing on the balls of his feet with child-like excitement. Vision frowning at Rhodey with concern. Tony swallows and turns towards Thor.

“I'm good,” he says, pulls his face plate down when Thor looks at him. “Let's get this over with.”

Thor hesitates only for a moment, then shrugs. “As you wish.”

Tony almost chokes on his spit, coughs. “Yeah.” Clears his throat. “Let's just. Go.”

Thor holds out his hand. It takes Tony a moment before he realizes he's supposed to take it. He's barely wrapped his fingers around Thor's hand when there's a violent tug on his arm.

The world turns sideways and flips. There's a sensation like falling, but his feet never leave solid ground. Tony yells, clings to Thor's hand with both of his. There's pressure, on his chest, around his limbs, like vises. His HUD blurs and blinks an angry red, FRIDAY's in his ear, calling out warnings. Tony can barley make them out over the sound of his heartbeat in his ears.

Then it's over.

Tony stumbles, is quickly steadied by Thor.

He's breathing hard, fighting a bout of dizziness.

“Let's not do that again,” he says and Thor chuckles, mirthless.

“I am afraid we must, or we will not be able to return to Midgard.”

“I'll think of something else. FRIDAY, gimme an update.”

“Everything is in working order and fully charged, boss. Surrounding temperature at minus 289.7 degree Fahrenheit. System's barely picking up an atmosphere. I would advice against taking off the suit or opening the helmet.”

“Yeah,” Tony says as he takes in their surroundings, “I can see that much.”

He licks his lips. “This. This is. Not what I expected.”

Hel, or wherever they are, is beautiful. In a terrifying way. The ground is black, volcanic sand and stones, swallowing most of the light there is so that it looks like they're standing on nothing. Around them, gigantic shards of clear crystal have sprouted from the black earth, ranging from twice Tony's size to that of a skyscraper. There's no atmosphere to speak off, nothing to separate them from open space. The Milky Way stretches like a line of spilled sugar over the sky. Tony has never seen so many stars. Well, once. But he's not thinking about that. Not thinking that all he'd need is to make a repulsor-powered jump and he'd be right there, right between those stars but still too far away from them, the endless nothing of space stretching out, infinitely, while he's drifting, drifting, drifting through--

“Niflheim,” Thor says right next to him and Tony flinches. Thor's hand lands on his shoulder with enough force to make Tony's knees buckle a bit.

“The dark world,” Thor goes on, gesturing at their surroundings with his Hammer. “The Home of Mist and Hvergelmir, from which all rivers come. The second realm born from Ginnungagap.”

“Ginu-whatnow?”

“Ginnungagap,” Thor repeats like that's supposed to mean anything and doesn't sound like something you'd find floating in your alphabet soup after you've given it a good stir.

It's a long shot, but, “FRIDAY? Care to elaborate?”

“Sorry, boss. No WiFi on Niflheim.”

“Figures. Anyway, while I appreciate the sightseeing, what are we doing here? I thought we were going to Hel?”

“We are,” Thor says, and starts swinging his hammer. “Follow.”

And he's off, shooting towards the sky.

“Fucking showoff,” Tony says and kicks off. Thor's a small figure ahead, weaving through the crystal shards. Up, down, left, right. “If I didn't know any better,” Tony says when he catches up to him, “I'd say you don't know where we're going.”

Thor laughs, boisterous, a flush on his cheek, eyes bright. Tony swallows.

“We are going to Hel,” Thor says and rolls out of the way of a crystal the size of the Empire State Building. Tony curses and pulls to the right, passing the crystal on its other side only by a hair's breadth. Finds himself staring at his distorted mirror image on the crystal, bright red and gold and somewhat gaudy in this world of black and gray.

Thor waits for him, swirling his hammer lazily to keep himself afloat in midair. Tony hovers beside him, looks out over Niflheim.

“Alright,” he says. “What are we looking for?”

“The gates to Hel,” Thor says and points toward something in the distance. Now Tony sees it too: In the distance mist curls between the crystal shards, swallowing the ground and making it look like they're growing from dirty gray cotton.

“Looks nice. Welcoming. Not at all like a giant fucking 'Keep Out',” Tony quips.

Thor says nothing, the smile from their flight wiped off his face without a trace. Swapped for grim determination.

“Let's go,” he says and doesn't wait for Tony, throws the hammer forwards and lets himself be dragged through the air, hurling towards the wall of mist.

Tony shakes his head, leans in and funnels more power towards his repulsors. Shoots after Thor.

“Abandon hope all ye who enter here,” he mumbles and lets himself be swallowed by the mist.

 


	4. beyond this place of wrath and tears

7

“I almost want the sand back,” Tony says and tries to blow some warmth into his bare hand. Thor cocks an eyebrow at him, smile curling his lips. “Almost,” Tony stresses.

“I am happy Hel has not broken your spirit,” Thor says and stops trudging through the snow to pull the borrowed cloak tighter around Tony's shoulders. The cold doesn't seem to bother him. His hand is hot around Tony's icy fingers. Tony hisses, feels pins and needles in his fingertips as blood returns to them.

“Yet,” Tony says through chattering teeth. It's a testament to how fucking cold he is that it feels like the most normal thing that Thor's currently massaging warmth back into his hand. Might be because he's busy flirting with hypothermia. “But she's getting there.”

Thor frowns at their hands, rubs the pad of his thumb over Tony's knuckles. “I will not let her.” He looks up, catches Tony's gaze. Holds it.

Tony swallows, nods. “Alright.” He looks away, wets his lips and clears his throat. “What if she gets to you first, then?”

“She shan't. For you will not let her.” He feels Thor squeeze his fingers before letting go.

Tony shakes his head, looks up to find Thor turn around and start walking again. He does his best to keep up with him, but the snow is deep and Thor's legs are approximately a mile long, so. Not that easy.

“Putting an awful lot of faith in me there, big guy.”

Thor laughs while striding his way up a small incline like it's nothing. Like the snow isn't about a foot deep and fucking everywhere. “Not without reason.”

“You've met me, right?” Tony says and stops at the top of the incline to catch his breath. A look around yields—to nobody's surprise—more snow every which way. Great.

“I have,” Thor says with a grin and claps a hand on Tony's shoulder.

“Yeah?” Tony chuckles. “Wonder why you haven't run for the hills yet. Must be crazier than I thought. Or more desperate.”

“Why?” Thor asks, and he's right in front of him, ten feet of perfection only inches from Tony. He almost takes a step back, but Thor's hand holds him in place. Tony dares to look up and finds Thor's expression inquisitive, eyebrows drawn together, forehead wrinkled. Their breath mists and mingles between them. “Am I desperate, truly, for putting my faith into a seasoned fighter?” Thor asks. “Into a brilliant scientist? A man who built a suit of armor from, in his own words, a pile of junk?”

“In a cave,” Tony adds, because he has no filter.

“In a cave,” Thor repeats with a smile tugging on his lips. His hand slides over Tony's shoulder towards his neck, where it curls, hot and burning, around Tony's nape. Tony's breath hitches but he manages to swallow down a gasp—or maybe groan—before it can escape.

“So I ask you, Tony,” voice rumbling in his chest, the purr of a content lion, chases sparks down Tony's spine. Or maybe that's Thor's hand, bringing that prickling feeling of static before lightning strikes. “How could I not put my trust in you?”

Tony opens his mouth. Closes it. “Well, if you put it like that.”

Thor chuckles, a small sound accompanied by a puff of misting breath between them. “I have told you before, you are a marvel.” His face sobers and Tony feels Thor's thumb drag over his jaw joint down to his pulse point. Tony's treacherous pulse beats against Thor's thumb far too fast, he notices, but can't bring himself to step away or shake off Thor's hand.

“Do not peg me a fool in order to put yourself down, Tony. I won't allow it.”

Tony should. Do something. Anything. Say something at least, but the part of his brain that usual provides his comebacks is noticeably silent. Short-circuited by Thor's hand. His words. Hitting deep and true.

“I won't,” Thor repeats and pulls Tony forward. Tony brings his hands up to push away. Maybe. Surely? He should. Push away. Take a step back, but all he does is grip the front of Thor's shirt and hold on. Time slows and stretches, but there's still not enough for Tony to act at all. He lets himself be pulled in, doesn't turn his head as Thor's ducks down, getting closer, closer, closer until there's nothing left between them and.

Thor kisses him.

His lips are hot. Distinctly masculine. Not soft and full like Pepper's. The thought is fleeting, vanishes before Tony can properly think it to the end, because Thor kisses like. Like he is. Forceful, overwhelming, eager, powerful. He kisses Tony like he's wanted to do it for a long time, like he couldn't hold back any longer. Like Tony wasn't the only one barely keeping it together all this time.

It feels amazing.

Tony has almost caught up when Thor pulls away again. He gasps, embarrassingly, and blinks. He's pretty sure Thor's the one holding him up, and when did he find the time and mental capacity to wrap his arm around Tony's middle?

“I thought,” Tony says, noticing how breathless he sounds, “I thought you said 'not yet'?”

Thor chuckles, resting his forehead against Tony's.

“I did,” he admits, and Tony's more than a bit ecstatic that Thor sounds hoarse and equally breathless. “But I am impulsive and hot-headed, and have a propensity to do what I want without thought for the consequences. Or so I've been told.”

“Well,” Tony says and leaves it at that.

Thor laughs, gorgeously, and plants a kiss on Tony's forehead before pulling away. “As much as I'd like to continue indulging my impulsiveness, now is not the time. Come, let us go on.”

“Now is not the time,” Tony repeats to himself as Thor walks off. “Seriously? Who kissed whom first here? 'Not the time' my ass.”

Thor laughs, and Tony doesn't feel that cold anymore.

 

0.7

They stop flying when Tony almost crashes into one of the crystals.

“That wasn't there a second ago,” Tony says when Thor lands.

“Of course,” Thor says. Tony clunks down on the ground with far less grace. The suit, you see.

“Alright, let's just,” Tony gestures vaguely at the all-encompassing mist, “walk, I guess.”

Thor nods. “It should not be far.”

“After you, then,” Tony says.

They walk in silence, which is just fine. Fine. Tony can deal, even though he hates this mist. Hates that he can't see, that it feels claustrophobic compared to the open sky beyond. The mist is so thick it feels like a wall. One he can't touch, but that's always there, which moves with him, caging him wherever he goes.

He fucking hates it.

“FRIDAY.”

“Yes, boss?”

“Can you scan again for any, I don't know, abnormalities?”

“Apart from the magic mist, boss?”

Tony grinds his teeth. “Yes. Apart from the magic mist.”

“On it.”

She falls silent. Tony watches the HUD as she runs her tests and diagnostics. Goes through the numbers with irritation. “C'mon, baby, that's a waste of perfectly good reactor juice. Give me something useful.”

“No can do, boss.” She doesn't have the decency to sound regretful, Tony notices.

“All that snark. Why do I keep doing this to myself?”

“We have a saying for that in Asgard,” Thor says. “As Yggdrasil, so its branches.”

“Yeah, yeah, trees, apples. I get it,” Tony says, scowling at the mist from the confines of his helmet. “Doesn't explain why my creations are so useless. Hear that, FRIDAY? I just called you useless. Because you are.”

“Sure, boss,” she says and nothing more.

Tony feels hot in his suit, even though he shouldn't. He built it to be perfectly temperate in any climate, from the Sahara to the North Pole, and even—after his little venture with the nuke back in New York City—open space. For a time at least.

He shouldn't be sweating. Shouldn't feel this itchy and short of breath. Must be the fucking mist. It's doing all kinds of bullshit to his sensors, because _magic_. Of fucking course.

Tony hates magic.

“Are we there yet?” Tony rolls his shoulders inside the suit, trying to scratch an itch on his shoulder blade. And failing.

“No,” Thor says, staring into the mist as if he can see anything but gray. “You will know when we are there.”

Okay, the mist is getting to Tony, it really is. He has to admit it. He's an adult, he can admit to his flaws. And this. This right here is bullshit. He can't deal. Not seeing, feeling this claustrophobic, constantly fearing he'll look to his side and Thor will be gone, swallowed by the mist because he took two steps to the side. Fuck.

“Boss,” FRIDAY says. His HR-display blinks red at the edge of his HUD.

“I know,” Tony says. “I know. Working on it.”

Thor thrusts his hand out, stops Tony with a palm on his chest. Tony looks down, sees the blue glow trying to squeeze past Thor's thick fingers. Swallows. Takes a deep breath through his nose.

“What?”

Thor shushes him, eyebrows drawn. Turns his head slowly, listening. Tony looks left and right, but all he sees is fucking gray. No change there. FRIDAY's running another scan—his girl is smart and wonderful and not at all useless—and Tony watches the HUD, the numbers jumping wildly as the mist fucks around with the sensors. Tony holds his breath, exhales slowly. The rush in his ears becomes louder. He looks at the HR-monitor. The number is going down. Huh.

“Listen,” Thor says, voice low.

Tony does. All he hears is the noise of his blood in his ears.

Or.

Wait.

There's a rhythm to it that's not in sync with his pulse. It's slower, more drawn out. A hissing, like distant a waterfall. A pause. A rushing like waves crashing at the shore.

“What--?” Tony asks.

“Garmr,” Thor says and creeps forward into the mist. Tony quickly follows, catches the edge of the cape before it's gone.

“Garmr?” Tony stage-whispers. The word sounds somewhat familiar. He remembers skimming over it on wikipedia. “Wasn't that the--”

He almost runs into Thor's back when he stops abruptly. There's something in front of them, something dark-gray and round, like four shaggy boulders next to each other.

Tony squints at the shaggy thing, watches it twitch, the four claws dragging rifts into the black ground.

“Wolf,” Tony finishes eventually, looking along the paw to where it vanishes into the mist. “That's a big fucking paw.”

Thor nods. “We are here. The wolf guards the gates.” He steps around the paw and makes to follow along the leg towards where no doubt a gaping snout is waiting for them to walk right into it.

“Thor,” Tony hisses, tugging on the cape. “Do we have a plan? We should have a plan.”

Thor shrugs. “We'll ask to be let in,” he says, smirks. “Nicely.”

“Ask?” Tony sputters. “Yeah, I bet it will just say: 'Sure, come right in! Hel will be happy to see you and hand you back Odin's soul. No biggie! Say Hi to her from me, will ya? It's not like I'm supposed to guard this place or something.' Are you out of your fucking mind?!”

Thor looks over his shoulder at Tony, shrugging again. “If he will not let us pass, we will ask again. Less nicely.” He raises the hammer and nods his head at it.

“Yeah, I bet he'll just love that,” Tony says, looking at the wolf's leg as they walk along it. The fur is dark and dirty, matted and interrupted by silvery scars. The rushing noise grows louder as they walk towards it. The mist becomes thinner, swirls in the rhythm of the noise.

Soon, Tony can make out a darker shadow through the mist. When it clears, Tony decides he liked it better when he couldn't see more than two feet ahead.

Garmr is a giant of an animal, his body as large as a cruise ship. He's spread out on his side, gargantuan head resting on one of its tree-trunk legs. Drool is dripping from the man-sized fangs, forming a small lake beneath his snout. Every time he takes a breath, the mist around them draws in a few feet, when he exhales it retreats. Tony's just happy he can't smell anything through the suit, because he can see Thor's hair and clothes moving in what must be the pinnacle of stinky dog breath in all of existence.

Garmr's eyes are half closed, crusted with dark dirt around the lids. The irises are milky white, carrying only a hint of what must have once been a startling amber color. Tony looks around for something resembling a gate, but all he can see is the wolfs dirty fur.

Thor takes position in front of the snout, hefting the hammer. “Garmr,” he calls, and Tony wants to smack him.

The eyes blink fully open and the head moves, slowly and with great effort. The wolf inhales, smells the air, tongue lolling past his teeth.

“WHO CALLS UPON GARMR?” he bites out, dragging the words from his enormous chest, a rumbling like a landslide. “YOU STINK OF ASGARD, LITTLE MONGREL.” He pulls back his chaps, bares his great fangs at them with a snarl. “IS IT YOU, TÝR? HAVE YOU COME TO SLAY ME?”

“I am Thor!” Thor calls. “I have come to--”

“SO YOU ARE FINALLY HERE, TÝR!” Garmr rises, huffing and growling. Tony powers up the repulsors, cursing.

“No! I am Thor! _THOR_! Odinson!”

“TÝR?”

“THOR!” Tony and Thor yell.

Garmr recoils, bares his teeth.

“NO NEED TO SHOUT, I CAN HEAR YOU JUST FINE,” he says and slumps down again. Tony could swear he can feel a small earthquake shake the ground. “ODINSON, EH. WHAT BRINGS YOU HERE?”

Thor drops the hand holding his hammer back down to his side, but doesn't return it to his hip, Tony notices. “I have come to enter Hel and retrieve my father's essence. I have no qualms with you, Great Wolf Guardian of Hel. But I will fight for the right of passage, if need be.”

Garmr seems to consider, tongue lolling as he pants. Finally he huffs and climbs to his feet. Thor takes a step back, lifts the hammer, Tony levels the repulsors at the wolf's eyes, ready.

“VERY WELL,” Garmr says and drags his gigantic body a few steps to the side, revealing a circular stone slab in the ground, ridiculously small in comparison. “YOU MAY PASS, ODINSON. I AM OLD, AND WEARY. MAY THE DEAD QUEEN DEAL WITH YOU.” He flops down again, the ground shudders. Tony drops his arms, but leaves the repulsors on stand-by.

“FRIDAY, keep an eye on Timber, will ya,” Tony says.

“Will do, boss.”

Thor is already crouching over the stone slab, brushing sand and rocks off it.

“What now?” Tony asks and looks over the markings carved into the stone. There are runes, he recognizes, and more of the knot-like patterns. But no handle or lock. “You didn't think to bring a crowbar, did you?”

“No,” Thor says and digs through his satchel, withdraws a leather waterskin, a golden over-sized bracelet, and a pale yellow apple. He puts the bracelet onto the stone slab's center and moves to do the same with the apple. Hesitates. He glances at Tony, just a second, then puts the apple back into his pouch. “I brought gifts, however.” Thor turns towards the gate, and when he continues speaking, he adopts a formal cadence. Like he's conducting a ritual. Stupid magic.

“Draupnir, the golden bracelet forged by the dwarves Brokkr and Eitri,” Thor intones. “Gifted to Odin Allfather and now offered to you, Hel, for his return.” He opens the waterskin and pours its contents over the bracelet. “Mead from Valhalla, made of honey from the bees in Freya's gardens. The finest in all of the Nine realms. Offered to you, Hel, so it strengthens you in your eternal rule.”

“'Cause that's just what we need,” Tony mumbles, “a well-nourished goddess of death so she can kick our asses into the _other_ land of the dead.”

Thor glowers at him and continues, louder, “grant us passage to your realm in exchange.”

Nothing happens.

Behind them, Garmr barks a laugh like a mine shaft collapsing. “FINE GIFTS INDEED, LITTLE MONGREL. ALAS, NOT FINE ENOUGH FOR THE DEAD QUEEN.”

“Yup,” Tony says, “thanks for the input. Not helpful at all.”

Garmr's giant head hovers over them, spittle dripping onto the gate. “YOU COME FOR A GREAT PRIZE, SO A GREAT GIFT MUST BE GIVEN.” He sniffs, a long and deep exhale that tugs on Thor's hair and clothes. Garmr dips his head as if he's nodding. “YES. THE HAMMER, MONGREL. OR--” His snout moves towards Thor's hip and he sniffs again. “THE APPLE.”

Thor steps to the side, cupping a hand over the pouch.

“Great. Easy choice,” Tony says and gestures at the stone slab. “Go on, then.”

Thor looks at him, takes his hammer into his hand. He flips it up into the air, catches it upside down, head pointing towards the ground.

“Very well,” he says.

“C'mon,” Tony says. “You're kidding! Are you crazy?”

“Probably,” Thor says and sets the hammer down with a dull thud.

Immediately, the slab cracks down the middle, crumbles into sand from its center towards the outside, swallowing the ring. The hammer tilts, slips. Tony throws himself forward, reaches for it. His hand closes around nothing, shit. He's falling forward into the whole, brings his hands up and pushes himself back with the repulsors. “Fuck!”

He looks into the hole. There's nothing but a stone stairway spiraling down into darkness. No golden glint from the bracelet, no square hammer resting on one of the steps.

“Great,” Tony says and looks at Thor. “That was fucking stupid. How are you going to fight her now?”

“I will manage,” Thor says and steps onto the stairs.

Tony clunks down next to him. “No.” He stabs a finger at Thor's chest. “ _I_ will manage. Seeing that you just gave your fucking hammer to her. Let's just hope she's not worthy or we'll be in deep shit. You should learn to use that big head of yours to _think_ , instead of only using it to smash through stuff.”

Thor snatches Tony's hand. Tony gives his best to hold up against him, metal groaning, but Thor easily pushes the hand away and lets go. “You do not know what you are talking about, Stark. Let it rest.”

He shoves past Tony, taking the steps two at a time because he's a dick. And Tony is petty, so he foregoes climbing down the stairs like a civilized grown-up. He flies, whipping past Thor down into the darkness.

At the bottom, he waits. There's a tunnel ahead, leading towards light. How terribly cliché. FRIDAY runs some scans but they yield nothing exciting. The stone is just your usual old type of rock with some snazzy minerals mixed in.

When he hears Thor approaching, Tony makes a great show of acting like he's been waiting for ages, although it was only a couple minutes, tops. Of course. Demi-god and all that. Asshole.

“Let's go,” he says and clomps ahead. Thor doesn't raise to the bait, doesn't comment on being ordered around like this, doesn't make a dash for the lead. It doesn't feel as rewarding as it should, and Tony slows a bit as he draws closer to the end of the tunnel.

He blinks against the light as he steps into it, shields his eyes reflexively while he waits for FRIDAY to dim the HUD display.

“Great,” he says as he looks left and right. “Awesome. FRIDAY?”

“Mostly silicon dioxide, some other minerals, boss.”

Sand. God, he fucking hates it.

“A desert,” Thor provides, always helpful in pointing out the obvious.

“Alright. I'll go and take a look around. I would ask you to come, but since you gave away your hammer...” Tony shrugs, fires up the repulsors.

“Stark, wait!” he can barely make out as he shoots up into the sky with great flourish. He circles around the small cave they just exited, looks for any trace of the staircase outside it. There's nothing. Tony hates magic.

He pushes ahead, north maybe, but who knows. Deeper into the desert, that's for sure. It doesn't seem to end anywhere, no matter the direction. All he can see is dunes and more dunes every which way.

“Do you see anything?” he asks FRIDAY.

“Nothing,” she says. “Scanning--”

Silence.

Black.

Tony's falling, hurling towards the ground, twisting.

“FRIDAY! Shit! C'mon, baby, _come on_! FRIDAY! Please.”

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Crashing.

He's thrown around inside the suit, twists and rolls over the ground, blind and deaf to the outside. He lands on his back, miraculously. Breathes. Blinks. Swallows. Pain. His voice is too loud inside the suit.

“Fuck.”

He tries to lift his arm but comes up short. The suit's too heavy, shit. Stupid, stupid, Tony. Stupid. He wriggles a bit, checks if everything's still--

Something grinds against the bare skin of his forearm. Rough, coarse. Rubbing over sensitive skin.

“No,” Tony sobs. Arches his back as if he can bust the armor open if he just pushes hard enough. Feels it again, against every limb. Grinding, itchy sensation.

Sand. In his suit.

 

8

Still walking. The usual. No change in sight.

Nothing but snow.

“A bath,” Tony says. “A steaming hot bath. A bottle of whiskey. The latest season of Big Brother for entertainment.”

“A fire,” Thor counters. “The fur of an ice lindworm to lie upon. A keg of mead.” His shoulder brushes Tony's. “You, naked, spread out on the fur for entertainment.”

Tony clears his throat. “How positively medieval.”

“You think so? I find this rather forward.” He doesn't look at Tony, but into the distance, face an expression of pure innocence. Not like he had just made a thinly veiled promise of an evening of debauchery. Tony's full-body shudder has nothing to do with the cold.

“Luckily for you, I'm currently in the mood of a bit of medieval fun,” Tony says, taking a couple steps to the side to give Thor a proper once-over.

Thor cocks a brow at him, turns towards Tony and crosses his arms over his chest. Tony's eyes linger on a biceps.

“Lucky me,” Thor says.

“Lucky you,” Tony agrees and falls through the ground.

He lands on his back. Wheezes in pain, air knocked from his lungs. Back of his head stings, ringing in his ears. Gasps for air, blinks against the tears in his eyes.

“Thor,” he tries to call, only manages a pathetic groan. A golden sky above him. He blinks. Not sky—ceiling. Opulent and shimmering. Tony rolls onto his side, winces. No more snow, but golden, hard tiles beneath him. He pushes up on all fours, groaning as his back protests the movement. His head is throbbing. Dizziness almost makes him collapse back onto the ground. Warm wetness trickles down his neck, a red drop lands between his hands, dark against the gold.

“Awesome,” Tony bites out.

“It is.”

Tony yelps, pushes upright and barely avoids keeling over with a new bout of vertigo.

“Who--?” He blinks to makes the room stop spinning, swallows against the nausea. “Who're--?”

Before him, a dais. Holding a gargantuan throne. On it, a man, almost dwarfed by the size of his seat. Yet his presence is still imposing, regal. Tony doesn't need the glinting golden armor and crown-like headdress to recognize him as what—and who—he is.

“Odin.”

Odin doesn't answer, doesn't even look at Tony but at the ceiling. Tony glances up and back down again. There's no hole where he might have fallen through. The golden ceiling stretches, unbroken, along a football field-sized hall.

“We've been looking for you,” Tony says and climbs to his feet.

“And now you have found me,” Odin says, still not looking at him.

“Yeah, what a lucky coincidence.” Tony takes a step forward, squints. There's still half a football field left between them. He only now notices the child, curled up on Odin's lap, dark hair and clothes a stark contrast against all the gold. Odin is not holding the girl, doesn't seem to notice her at all. His hands remain curled around the armrests of his throne. Her face is turned into the armored chest, one arm wrapped around Odin's middle. Tony rubs at his own chest, grimaces.

“That's, uh, your grand-daughter? I presume?”

“All this power,” Odin says, “and she still has not been able to succeed. For all its splendor, this room is but a shadow of its original. Empty of its true wealth.”

“Looks pretty wealthy to me,” Tony says, glances at the golden pillars and intricately carved tiles. He looks at the girl, her uncomfortable position. “Props to her for trying, though. Right?”

For the first time, Odin turns to look at Tony. “Ignorance,” he says, and Tony doesn't know if Odin means him or the girl.

A boom thunders through the throne hall, makes Tony's bones rattle inside his puny mortal body. Tony covers his ears, closes his eyes against the spike of pain piercing his brain. He gasps when the pain recedes to a dull throbbing again, finds himself back on his knees.

Odin regards him with indifference. “So you speak truth. My son has come for me.”

“Yeah,” Tony grunts. “Not like I'd come here otherwise. No offense.”

“You are not as wise as my son makes you out to be.”

“Funnily enough, that's what I keep telling him, too.”

The girl is looking towards the ceiling. She doesn't flinch when the second boom rings out, but untangles herself slowly from Odin. Tony scrambles to his feet, staggers when the next boom tries its best to split his head apart. He steadies himself against a pillar and welcomes the feel of its cold surface against his forehead. Several more booms follow, each quicker than the last.

The girl slides off Odin's lap and doesn't look like a child anymore. She's grown in the time it took her to take a few steps, now a teen, maybe a young woman. Before Tony's eyes, she transforms further: a black helmet folds around her head, sprouting sharp, angled antlers, a cloak trails from her shoulders. All black, skin-tight leathery armor wraps around her.

She raises her hand and the hammer cuts through the air and smacks into her palm.

“Shit!”

Tony pushes away from the pillar, repulsor whining to life. Another boom that makes his teeth rattle. Hel doesn't break her stride. Only a few more steps between them. Tony brings up his hand, aiming for her head.

“Alright, buttercup, let's dance.”

She side-steps the repulsor blast, throws the hammer. Tony dives behind the pillar, feels it rattle with the hammer's impact. Another boom. A trickle of dust rains down on Tony and he looks up, finds a crack in the ceiling. He laughs, peeks around the pillar and finds Hel looking up at the ceiling as well, brows furrowed.

“Concerned?”

She whips her head around, looks right at him, eyes narrowed. Tony swallows, tries for a grin.

“I know with Loki being your father fashion sense is a bit much to ask for, but word of advice: Hot Topic does not a villain's wardrobe make.”

The hammer's back in her hand and immediately on the way towards Tony's face. He ducks behind the pillar once more, scrambles to his feet. The hammer whizzes past, bounces off the wall. Tony fires the repulsor blindly around the pillar and makes a run for the next in line, throws himself behind it. He stumbles, lands on his shoulder and crawls the rest of the way. He grunts when the hammer hits the pillar.

“Not that easy, buttercup!”

He fires around the pillar again. Another boom shakes the hall, more dust raining from the ceiling. Tony sneaks a glance at the throne. Odin's still in his seat, not having moved an inch.

“A little help?!” Tony calls.

“On your left,” Odin says and Tony whirls his head around. Hel's hand closes around his neck. Tony gasps. She lifts him easily into the air. Tony wraps his armored hand around her wrist, fires. The blast is enough to ease her grasp. He falls, hits the ground hard, head bouncing off the tiles. The ground tilts back and forth, twists. He groans, tries to push himself up. Another boom, a great cracking sound like glaciers splitting. Hand around the back of his neck. He's being lifted, he's soaring through the air, weightless--

A pillar cuts his flight short; the impact pushes all air from his lungs. He falls to the ground, gasping. Everything hurts. Stars dancing in his vision. Coughs, tastes blood.

“Tony!”

A smudge of yellow above him. He blinks and his vision clears enough to reveal Thor. Beautiful, perfect Thor. Face twisted in concern.

“Your family sucks,” Tony coughs. A shaky smile tugs on Thor's lips.

“And here I was concerned you might be severely hurt.”

“Hurt? Yes. Severely? Also yes.” He can't help but curse when Thor pulls him upright and settles him against the pillar. “Ouch.”

Thor's brows furrow. “I will--”

He doesn't finish his sentence, jumps to his feet instead and whirls around, lunges forward onto Hel, dragging them to the ground. They twist in a tangle of limbs. Tony can't make out who has the upper hand before he sees Thor hurling through the air, landing and sliding a few feet over the ground. Tony has less than a second to be concerned before Thor's back on his feet and sprinting across the hall, lightning crackling around his fists. He throws himself at Hel with a wordless shout.

Tony tries getting up, fails. Falls back against the pillar and slides to the ground. He hears fists connecting with flesh, the strangely hollow metallic song of the hammer when it cuts through the air, dull thud of impact. Shouts of pain and anger from Thor and Hel.

Tony raises his hand, repulsor ready. His aim is shaky, his vision blurry around the edges. Lightning arcs around the fighting pair, blinds Tony even more. He drops his arm and rolls onto his stomach, pulls himself towards the dais. Odin sits unmoving. Only watches.

“Do something!” Tony yells, winces when he hears a short shout of pain from Thor. “You useless, bad excuse of a father! Do something!”

Odin looks at Tony, mouth a thin, tense line. Saying his next words seems to take a tremendous amount of effort, “I cannot.”

“Fuck!” Tony pulls himself onto the dais's first step, body screaming with pain. “Fuck this! And fuck you!”

A grunt of pain, the dull sound of something large and heavy hitting the ground. Tony turns, finds Hel standing over Thor, prone on the ground. Her helmet's gone, blood dripping from her temple and staining her lips. She raises the hammer over her head. Thor doesn't move.

Tony yells, fires at her. The blast catches her chest purely by luck, makes her stumble back. Tony fires again, again, again. Can't even see her, but the only thing that matters is that she's away from Thor.

Her kick throws his head against the steps, leaves him blind for a few seconds, and deaf with the ringing in his ears.

He spits out blood, fingers slipping weakly over the edge of a step as he tries to pull himself away. Something heavy hitting his back, pushing him painfully into the hard ground.

“Enough of your insolence,” Hela shouts, digging her heel into Tony's spine, making him gasp for air. “Enough!”

Tony's reaches out, fingers seeking for anything that might help, curl around Odin's ankle. He looks up, finds Odin looking down at him, lips moving. Tony stares, tries to focus. The words escape him, don't make sense until they do.

“The cloak,” Odin says.

The tip of Hel's boot digs into Tony's side, turns him onto his back.

“I said enough!” she shouts, raising the hammer.

With his last strength, Tony grips the cloak, pulls, curls his armored hand into a fist, laser popping out of the back of the gauntlet. He caught her off guard. Hel takes a step back, slips down the stair, saves herself from falling by turning her back towards Tony. The laser cuts over her pauldrons, splits the clasps holding the cloak.

Hel shrieks, falls. Tony's buried under the cloak and coughs when the smell of decay hits him. He fights the smothering fabric, gulps down air when his face is finally free. Hel sits slumped against the dais, hands holding one side of her face. Tony recoils when he sees the rotting skin of her left side, the stringy colorless hair. She's a child again, half at least. The contrast between her rosy, healthy skin and the rotting flesh peeling away from bone is grotesque. Tony pushes the cloak off himself completely. He would retch if he wasn't so fucking tired.

“No,” Hel sobs. “I told you to stop.”

“Fat chance, buttercup,” Tony says and Hel wails. Like a child. Tony feels a pang in his chest.

“Give it back!” She makes to grab the cloak, but quickly covers her rotting half again when she see Tony's reaction. He aims the repulsor at her, makes it whine before dropping his aim to the ground. A blast chips the tiles. They don't look as polished and gleaming anymore. They're dull, as if covered by centuries of dust.

“Next time I'll aim for your face,” Tony says. “Understand?”

She nods, sniffs.

“Good,” Tony says and pulls himself towards the throne, settles against its side. He glances at Thor, still laying in the middle of the hall. Swallows. “Is he dead?”

Hel shakes her head, fingers edging over the ground towards the cloak. The repulsor blast hits her hand, makes her flinch back and scream in pain.

“Next one will be full power,” Tony says.

It's a fat lie, there can't be much juice left. She doesn't need to know that.

Tony pulls the cloak towards him and out of her reach. Blinks against the weight of his lids.

“Odin leaves with us,” Tony says. “Don't follow. We leave the cloak.”

“No!” She lunges forward but stops when Tony holds up the cloak, repulsor aimed at it.

“Wanna find out what happens?” She shrinks back, turns her rotten half away. “Thought so,” Tony says. Speaking. Harder than it was before. Fuck.

He glances towards Thor, sees him stirring. Relieve hits Tony like a truck. He feels himself slipping, fights against his exhaustion. The darkness around the edge of his vision grows larger, drains the color from his sight. The pain is everywhere. A sea ready to pull him under and drown him. He coughs, tastes blood.

Thor's back on his feet, cradling one side. Blue lightning sparks around his hands, his feet, fills his eyes.

“Thor,” Tony croaks. The pain in his chest makes it hard to breathe. The adrenaline has run its course through his system, leaves him cold and shaking. Inch by inch, he slides towards the ground. Thor jumps. Flies. Lands on the dais. Lightning dancing at his feet, arcing over the ground.

Hel's wailing. “Don't take him from me! No!”

Doesn't make sense. Tony doesn't care. There's pain. So much.

Her shrieks grow louder. Tony's lifted off the ground. Feels like flying. Over too soon. Back on the hard floor. Something sweet against his lips, his tongue. Too sweet. Tony coughs. Hand over his mouth.

“Eat, Tony.” Sounds desperate. “Accept Iðunn's gift. Please.”

Tony swallows.

Slips into darkness.

Sleeps.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to talk about Hel, because this took a _completely_ different turn from the vision I had of her when I originally started this story. Hell, even when I started this chapter I still had a different Hel in mind.  
>  At the beginning, I thought of her as this ancient goddess, powerful and old like in mythology - which she still is, don't get me wrong - but she's also Loki's daughter. And in this MCU-inspired story that also means she can't be _that_ old by Asgardian standards, seeing as Thor and Loki aren't that old either.  
>  I guess it was a mixture of my conversation with [MDCBD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDCBD/pseuds/MDCBD) in the comments of the second chapter, the route this fic took over all, and reading [Neil Gaiman's Norse Mythology](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/37903770-norse-mythology) that transformed her into this version while I was writing.
> 
> I thought a bit more about what Hel being Loki's daughter means. Not only that she's younger than I originally considered, but also that, looking back at the movies and Loki's character, he couldn't have been a good father.  
> In my mind, Hel had never been a "real daughter" born from one of Loki's lovers, but something he created on his own and breathed life into. In mythology, Hel and the rest of Loki's children are somewhat of an abomination, quickly shackled or discarded by the gods. Hel is indeed only a child when she is made queen of the underworld. So here in this context, where the gods are all a bit more human, I thought that a child being made queen of her own realm with nobody for company apart from the "unworthy" dead seemed like a sad and lonely fate.  
> Especially with the way Loki could be no good father, since he didn't have a good example and was caught up in his own fight for power for the most time.  
> And I hope that I managed to bring that across. That you could see her like I do now, like a child longing for contact and fatherly comfort, who's being used by her father only for his own gain.
> 
> This is not supposed to be Loki-hate, I hope that's clear. Remember that this story started out with the Loki sitting on Asgard's throne at the end of The Dark Kingdom in mind - a, to me, vengeful, power-hungry Loki, mad with grief over the loss of Frigga, the only person who seemed to really love him (disregarding Thor, because I think Loki too blind by his own jealousy to see Thor's brotherly love for him at that point).
> 
> Of course, the current MCU Loki had his redemption, but by that time this fic was already well on its way. Loki will always have a spot in my heart, but this story isn't about him. It's not even about Hel. It's about Tony, mostly, and Thor, and their relationship.
> 
> Oh yeah, the cloak thing. I have no idea where that came from. I think I read it somewhere, maybe comic canon, but I have no idea. I just thought it's a nice twist and went with it.  
> Enough ranting. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. One more to go!


	5. bloody, but unbowed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating has been adjusted for this chapter (you know what that means). Enjoy. ;)

9

“FRIDAY, lights.”

Tony squints against the sudden brightness and curses. “Could you-- thanks.”

The lights dim and Tony shuffles further into the workshop. Looks around. His armor is in pieces, dumped onto a workbench. Dum-E is hovering over it like he was the one who broke it.

“Don't get your wires in a twist, sweetheart. I'll make a new one.”

Dum-E chirps, pleased, and rolls off into the depth of the workshop. Collecting materials, likely.

“FRIDAY, pull up the feed of-- what time is it? Three-fifteen. Okay, show me yesterday, eight-thirty AM. Grounds cam, uh, sixteen.”

“Will do, boss.” A screen opens, displays the security cam feed. It shows part of the grounds, spreading lawn, fence and trees in the background. Nothing happens for half a minute apart from a crow soaring down to perch on the fence. Tony shakes his head. “Skip three minutes ahead. Thank-- pause.”

Thor's crouching on the ground, Tony in his arms. There's a dark smudge of something on the side of his face. His arms are bruised, his clothes bear the marks of the fight. Tony's wrapped into a cloak, face tucked in the crook of Thor's neck. Thor's holding him close, arms wrapped tightly around his middle and knees.

“Play.”

Thor gets to his feet, Vision comes floating into the frame, hands hovering over Tony's limp form. Thor shakes his head, strides past and out of the camera's line of vision. “Show me the rest.”

The feed and angle changes, switches to a different camera, Thor quickly crosses the screen. Another switch. Like that, Tony follows Thor's path all the way into the building, through the kitchen, where Rhodey spills his coffee, through the halls and towards Tony's bedroom.

Thor lays Tony down on the bed, unstraps the remains of the Iron Man armor from his back and drops it to the ground. He climbs onto the bed, unwraps Tony from the cloak-cocoon. Tony almost flinches when he gets a first glance of himself. Tony's a tech mogul, of course his security cams are state of the art, top of the line, HD, three-digit FPS monsters. Every detail is captured.

In this case, every scratch, every bruise, every tear in his clothes.

He looks like someone put him through a meat grinder. His skin is pallid apart from the dark bruises and angry red sunburns on his shoulders and arms. Half of his face is swollen, his lips are black with dried blood. One hand is caked in dirt, the other still encased in its gauntlet.

Rhodey wheels into the bedroom while Thor undresses Tony, releases a stream of profanity and demands to know what happened. “Mute,” Tony says and Rhodey's left showing his fearful rage through wild gestures. Thor barely reacts, continues his task undeterred. Tony hisses when he sees the bruise at his side revealed. Black and blue, it stretches from his chest to his hip. He raises his hand to his side now, pushes fingers where the bruise should be. There's no pain making him flinch, nothing really but the feeling of light pressure.

When Tony's completely undressed, he looks fucking terrible. Small and beaten. Half-dead. Thor looks at him, shoulders a tense line.

“Yeah, big guy. Not the thing you had in mind when you talked about me spread out and naked, huh?” Tony tells the workshop. On the screen, Rhodey throws his hands up in horror.

Thor lays one hand on Tony's forehead. Staring, waiting. For what, Tony has no idea. Eventually, he nods, satisfied for a reason only he knows. He cups Tony's swollen cheek. Leans in and kisses Tony's grimy forehead. Rhodey looks like he wants to leap out of his chair, but Vision holds him back. Thor says something to Vision, then nods to Rhodey and strides out of the room.

Vision follows after a second. Rhodey looks like he wants to do the same, if only to kick Thor's ass. He doesn't. Wheels around the bed instead and sits. Waiting.

“Show me the outside.” A second screen opens, shows Thor striding over the lawn towards an unremarkable patch of grass. Tony's not sure, but he thinks it's the one where Thor arrived, when was it? A week? Two ago?

Thor crouches down, takes something from his satchel and does his strange drawing-patterns-into-the-air spiel Tony's already seen once. He gets up again, says something to Vision, who nods, and then Thor vanishes. No rainbow light show. One second he's there, then he isn't.

Tony turns back to his bedroom feed. There's no change but for the duvet Rhodey's pulled over Tony's naked body in an attempt to give him some decency. Now he's sitting in his wheelchair, staring at Tony's sleeping form.

“Speed up.”

Nothing much changes as the clock in the corner ticks down the minutes until night time. Vision comes in a few times, picks up the armor, brings a coffee, something to eat. Rhodey only takes a bite or a sip before leaving the rest on Tony's nightstand to get cold. He turns on the TV and flips through the channels, not-really watches a rerun of the Bachelor, then switches to Netflix.

Tony's so occupied with watching Rhodey display his worry that he only catches the change in his own appearance when the bruise on his face has already changed colors and the swelling has gone down by half. Enthralled, Tony watches the bruise on his face turn from green to yellowish-brown, growing smaller by the second.

Rhodey eventually falls asleep in his chair. Another two hours later and Tony wakes up.

“End feed,” Tony says. Sighs. “Did he say when he'd be back?”

“My apologies. I didn't mean to interrupt,” Vision says and finally walks into the room, steaming cup of coffee in hand. Tony accepts it, but doesn't yet drink.

“It's fine,” he says. “So?”

“After assuring you would be fine, Thor has departed to return Odin's essence to Asgard. He was quite confident the conflict will be put to an end soon, now that you have allowed the Allfather's return.”

“Soon, huh?” Tony sips his coffee. Takes a moment to savor the warmth making its way down into his stomach and spreading from there throughout his body. He didn't realize how much he's missed it. “Wonder what that means to a centuries-old god.”

Vision smiles. “That remains to be seen. But I do dare to think he will be eager to deal with his brother swiftly.” He looks at Tony. “For several reasons.”

Tony, cup halfway to his mouth, hesitates. “Is that smugness? FRIDAY, is that smugness I hear?”

“I wasn't programmed to recognize sentiment, boss.”

“And that's an outright lie. Terminator was right, technology wants to turn on us,” Tony says and takes a gulp of coffee. “I'm going to take a shower before FRIDAY takes over the compound and turns off the hot water. Good night, Vision.”

“Good night, Tony. And welcome back.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Inside the workshop's bathroom, Tony takes a long, hard look at himself. He's still dirty and grimy, with flakes of dried blood peeling away from his neck and lips. But he doesn't look like a Walking Dead extra any longer. The bruises are gone. There's no swelling, no scratches, no shadows under his eyes. His reflection is a far cry from the recording he just watched, only about twenty hours old. A taste lingers in his mouth, a sweetness even the coffee could not wash away.

“What the hell did you feed me?”

His reflection remains silent. Tony shakes his head at the mirror, decides he doesn't really care and steps into the shower to wash away dirt and a few lingering memories.

ᚦ

“Happy birthday, dear Tony, happy birthday to you!”

The song ends in cheers and congratulations. Tony applauds, grinning.

“Thank you, thank you,” he says, raising his beer bottle and toasting at the somewhat tipsy choir, “for the most out-of-tune rendition of this great song I've ever heard.”

The following protest are more laughter than true affront. Rhodey flicks a bottle cap at him and calls Tony an asshole.

“True,” Tony says, “but a loveable one.”

Rhodey laughs and claps a hand on Tony's shoulder, getting up from his seat. “Keep telling yourself that. We'll believe it eventually.” He walks towards the barbecue, where Vision is currently staring down the burgers. Tony watches his gait, searching for any kinks he'll have to get rid of.

Pepper plops down in Rhodey's abandoned seat, swirling her rosé inside her wine glass before taking a sip. “The new exoskeleton looks good. Are we ready to put it into mass production?”

Tony considers for a moment, shrugs. “Just a few more changes and it'll be good to go.”

“That's good.”

Silence. It doesn't feel as awkward anymore. Could be better, could be worse, Tony decides and takes another sip of beer. He's pleasantly buzzed, surrounded by loved ones celebrating his birthday with him. It's a nice, warm evening, there's music and even fairy lights. Peter's showing off for Happy, who bet him a beer he couldn't do a back flip. Rhodey's teaching Vision the intricacies of barbecuing.

There are a few empty seats. Of course there are.

But when he turned on the flip-phone this morning, there was a message waiting. Short and straight to the point it wished him a happy birthday and success in this new year of his life. Tony had wondered if Steve had meant to write more. Would have liked to extend a longer olive branch, if his thumb had hovered over the send button. Like Tony's had when he'd typed out a quick thank you.

“How are you holding up?”

“Hm?” Tony blinks, tears his gaze away from the couch's vacant side. He looks at Pepper, her beautiful, perfect face. Her furrowed brows, the thin line of her lips as she waits for an answer. Fine, he wants to say, I'm fine. The word already sits on his tongue. He washes it away with a swig of beer.

“I miss you,” he says, and hurries on when her face falls, “not in _that_ way. I miss how it was. Before.”

“Oh, Tony,” she says.

“It's alright.” Tony smiles at her, shrugs. “I'm doing the grown-up thing, talking, yeah?”

Pepper doesn't look completely convinced, but that's fine. Tony will just have to prove it.

“Good,” she says. “You know you can always call me, right?”

“Right.”

They do some more grown-up talking. About Stark Industries, upcoming projects and board meetings. They stay away from anything Avengers and Iron Man related for now. That wound is still too raw, Pepper's parting words still too present. There was no room for Iron Man in their relationship, she'd told him. It had crushed him, back then. Those first few weeks after had been hell, and the thought that they would eventually be able to sit like this and talk again had been unimaginable.

Pepper gives him a peck on the cheek. “Don't get up, I'll see myself out.”

Happy's waiting for her, waves at Tony over her shoulder. Tony smiles, raises his bottle in a small good-bye.

It's late. Peter's curled up in one of the patio chairs, knees pulled to his chest, head cushioned on the back rest. He's snuggling a half-empty bottle of beer. Tony shakes his head at him.

“What happened to today's youth?” he asks Rhodey, who chuckles.

“I do remember you buried under several bottles of bottom-shelf vodka at your first frat party at MIT.”

“Exactly!” Tony says. “My grandfather would have turned in his grave if I'd only managed half a bottle of beer before conking out. Alcoholism is a cherished family tradition.”

“And still you've been nursing only your third bottle of beer for the last two hours.”

“I'm a disgrace,” Tony says and tilts his head against the back of the couch. A crow circles the patio and lands on the edge of the barbecue, cawing.

Rhodey rips off a piece of his burger, flicking it in the bird's direction. “Yeah. And better for it.”

Tony makes a show of putting a hand over his heart. “I didn't think you cared!”

Rhodey knocks their shoulders together. “I'm just in it for the legs.” Not bothering to cover his yawn, he gets up, waving Vision over. “Let's get the kid into bed and leave the old man to his musings.” He squeezes Tony's shoulder in passing. “Night, Tony.”

“Don't let the bed bugs bite,” Tony says and drains his beer. He should probably turn in, too. Recalls Pepper mentioning a meeting or something equally nonsensical tomorrow, but he can't be bothered. The couch is comfortable, the night air warm enough.

The crow has made its way over to the table, eyes Rhodey's abandoned burger.

Tony waves at it. “Go ahead. It's just you and me, bud.”

“Am I intruding?”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Tony jumps to his feet, the bottle clunks on the floor. “Fuck!”

Thor.

Standing at the edge of the patio in all his glory. He looks. Weary. A little worse for wear. But still infuriatingly, strikingly, _breathtaking_. Tony wants to leap over the couch and throw himself at Thor, but he doesn't. Doesn't know if it would be welcomed, if their one kiss had been born of circumstance, of isolation and bared feelings.

“I didn't think you'd come back,” Tony says, because sticking to something simple like 'hi' is apparently too much to ask.

Thor looks surprised. “Why wouldn't I?”

“I don't know.” Tony shrugs, waves at the general direction of the sky. “Princely things to do? Rebuilding a kingdom after a war?”

Thor smiles, takes a few steps onto the patio and further into the light. Tony swallows. His hair is braided more than usual, pulled back from his face. There are new lines on his features, some born of worry, others from hard steel. A particularly nasty one runs down the left half of his face, from his brow over his cheek, only narrowly missing his eye.

Thor notices Tony's look, mouth splitting into a grin. “Your favorite niece of mine left a parting gift to be remembered by.”

There's only the edge of the couch separating them now. Tony breathes in, smells ozone. Thinks he can feel the prickling of charged air. His hand is already halfway to Thor's face before he catches himself.

“Can I--?”

“Of course.”

Thor's beard is surprisingly soft against Tony's palm. His skin is taut, the scar on the other hand, feels smooth. Tony runs a finger over the shell of Thor's ear, revels in the small hiss of breath he gets as a response.

“Every time I see my reflection,” Thor says, voice husky, when Tony's nails scratch over his scalp and his fingers catch on a braid, “I think of you. I remember your smell and the taste of your mouth.”

Tony's breath hitches. One of his knees is already on the couch, his hand is wrapped around Thor's neck.

“Asgard,” Thor says, “has a lot of reflective surfaces.”

Tony laughs, yelps when Thor grabs him and yanks him across the couch. The plated front of his armor digs into Tony's ribs, but he doesn't care. Not when Thor kisses him like his life depends on it, like he's spent the last seven months pining over him much like Tony had pined over Thor.

Tony gives back as good as he gets. He pushes his tongue past Thor's lips, licks into his mouth and groans. Thor picks him up like he weighs nothing and Tony has just enough sanity left to wrap his legs around Thor. They both groan when this new position rubs their crotches together. Thor's hands cup Tony's ass, squeeze and pull him impossibly closer.

“God, fuck!” Tony bites out. Thor laughs, laps at Tony's neck and walks them over to the closest supportive surface, which turns out to be the patio door. Tony feels the glass shudder against his back.

“As much as I like the idea of you fucking me against every--” a gasp when Thor bites his ear lobe, “surface of the compound, I don't think the glass will be able to-- shit, yes-- handle it.”

Thor grins, licks into Tony's mouth and pushes his hips forward, rubs their cocks together until Tony keens. Shit. He has half a mind to forget the damn door in favor of dry humping right there 'til he comes into his pants like some kind of teenager. But then Thor hoists him up and throws him over his shoulder, ignoring Tony's protests as he stalks through the facility with purpose.

“Your bed will suffice for now,” Thor says. “The other surfaces will have to wait.”

“Whatever you say,” Tony chokes out, mind too occupied with running through all the possibilities.

Thor sets him down on the edge of the bed, pushes Tony's legs apart to kneel between them. He rubs his hands over Tony's thighs, kisses him, slower this time, but no less hungry. The mood has changed from urgency to one of thorough exploration. They undress each other between kisses. Thor's fingers drag over Tony's skin, along his side where the bruise had painted his skin black the last time Thor saw him. Tony does some exploring of his own. His hand lingers on a pale scar cutting over one pectoral, old and barely-there.

“A draugr. On my first own hunting journey. I was young and proud.”

“So nothing much has changed.”

Thor nips at his bottom lip, laughs. “I have grown older. Wiser.” He drags his nails down Tony's chest, past his navel. Follows the small trail of hair downwards. Tony hisses, legs twitching farther apart when Thor's hand wraps around his cock and gives it a first, slow pull. “My tastes have become more refined.”

“Yeah? Tell me more about those tastes.”

“Why waste my breath on explanations when I can show you?”

Tony groans when Thor strokes upward with a light twist around the glans, shudders. “Sounds good. Yeah-- you, fuck-- you do that.”

There's not much talking after that. Thor jerks Tony's cock slowly, almost lazily, until Tony pushes up into his hand, urging him to go faster. He reaches for the nightstand, digs through the drawer for lube. Thor stops jerking him, follows onto the bed while Tony scoots back to make room. He lies back, opening his legs for Thor to fit between.

“This is almost empty,” Thor remarks as he squirts a generous amount of lube onto his fingers. Thick fingers, Tony notices, and swallows.

“Seven months are a long time.”

Thor's pupils are huge and dark. He leans in, settles his weight on one hand next to Tony's head. He doesn't blink, watches Tony's face as he slips his slick fingers between Tony's legs, trails them softly over Tony's perineum towards his hole. Tony gasps, raises his legs to wrap them around Thor's back.

“Did you think of me? During those seven months? When you pleasured yourself?” His voice is raspy and breathless, even deeper than usual.

“Yes,” Tony chokes out when a first finger pushes inside him. “Every night.”

Thor pushes deeper, stops for a moment when Tony clenches around him. “Did you think about this?”

“I-- shit, I thought about this. About you, fucking me on a lindworm fur until I can't walk anymore.” He gasps when Thor pulls the finger back, pushes back in. “I don't-- fuck, more-- I don't even know what a lindworm is, but, shit, I-- yeah, like that-- I thought about it.”

Thor laughs, leans down to nip at Tony's bottom lip, crushes their mouths together. He fucks Tony open for what feels like forever, slowly at first, then pushes a second finger inside. Tony needs a moment to adjust to the stretch. He nods when the burn eases, squeezes Thor's bicep. “C'mon big guy, I can take it.”

“I expect nothing less,” Thor says. “There are many things I have in mind for you.”

“Yeah? You're doing an awful lot of talking and not enough showing.”

Thor grins, curls his fingers until he finds that sweet spot and Tony's back arches off the bed. “Insolence.”

Tony moans. “You love it.”

“I do,” Thor says and kisses him again, cuts off Tony's train of thought before it can go further down the hole of half-baked confessions. Again and again, Thor rubs over his prostate, making him shudder each time, spilling incoherent curses.

Tony has only a moment to mourn the feeling of fullness when Thor pulls his fingers out. He squeezes lube into Tony's hand, sits back on his haunches to give a full view of what is expecting him. Tony wraps both hands around the considerable girth of Thor's cock. Grins when Thor shudders and moans. He strokes him a few times to spread the lube, swirls a thumb around the tip until Thor's hips jerk.

Tony thinks about how that cock would feel in his mouth, heavy on his tongue, stretching his lips until the corners of his mouth sting. He groans, curses.

“Fuck, I want to blow you so bad.”

“Later,” Thor says, breathless, urgent, “there will be time for it. Later. Now, I want-- I need to be inside you.”

“Okay,” Tony says, “yeah, that's fine. That's perfect.” He's giddy, high off the way Thor sounds ready to burst with want. “Shit, that's--”

He makes to turn around, but Thor stops him, large paws wrapped around his hips. “Like this,” he says, lifting Tony's hips off the bed. “I want to see you.”

Tony nods, because his mouth is dry and he doesn't trust himself to form any proper words. He feels Thor's cock nudging his hole, bites down on his lip when the pressure increases and Thor slips inside. The stretch feels delicious, teetering on the edge of burning. Tony wants more, wraps his legs around Thor's middle for leverage. With a drawn-out groan, Thor pushes deeper. He sounds like he's coming apart at the edges, full of need. For Tony. Fuck.

Thor bottoms out, says something that sounds like a curse in no language of this world. His lips are parted, his eyes black beneath heavy lids, his neck and cheeks flushed.

“Are you--” Thor rasps, clears his throat, “can I move?”

“Just. Gimme a sec,” Tony says, breathes deeply. He needs a second, two, to adjust. Thor drops his forehead onto Tony's chest, groans. He's all but shaking with the urge to move. Tony would usually tease him some more, leave him waiting until he begs, if he wasn't so fucking _desperate_ for it himself.

Thor raises his head, leans in over Tony, lips only inches from Tony's own mouth. His breath tingles Tony's lips as Thor speaks, “ástin mín, hjartað mitt, _please_ , let me move.”

“Okay,” Tony says, cock twitching and leaking over his belly. “Alright. Yes, fuck, yes.”

Thor kisses him, hard. One hand tangled in Tony's hair, the other wrapped around his hip, Thor pulls out and pushes back inside. He moans against Tony's mouth, they're not so much kissing as breathing each other's air. Groaning, cursing, as Thor moves inside Tony. Speeding up, pulling Tony in each time he thrusts forward. Each thrust is harder than the last, banging the bed against the wall.

Tony laughs, arching his back. “They'll hear us, fuck-- there!”

“Let them,” Thor growls.

“But you'll-- fffuck-- you'll put the bed through the wall.”

Thor rolls them around, pulls Tony on top. “Like this, then.” Shit-eating grin. “Ride me.”

“Is that--” Thor jerks his hips up, hits Tony _right there_ , shit. “Is that a challenge?”

“Perhaps.”

Tony's never been one to back away from a challenge. Especially not one so enticing. He grinds down on Thor's cock, makes him groan and pulls back up again. Thor's hands are back around Tony's hips, guiding him into the right rhythm, hips jerking up when he pulls Tony down.

“Fuck me,” Tony says. He's getting closer, each time Thor's cock rubs over his prostate sending sparks along his spine. His thighs are burning. He doesn't care. There's just the two of them, Thor and Tony, and the delicious, perfect feel of Thor's cock inside him. His hand around Tony, jerking him to the rhythm of the thrusts. God. Fuck.

“I'm--” he groans, words failing him because this is perfect, yes, fuck, there, please, don't stop, shit, he's gonna, he's--

Tony comes with a strangled groan, spills over the two of them, riding out his orgasm with sharp snaps of his hips, grinding down until he's spent. He goes limp, collapses onto Thor's chest. Thor curses, fingers digging into Tony's hips hard enough to bruise as he holds him steady, thrusting inside him, faster, harder. Jerky, uncoordinated movements, snapping hips. He bites down on Tony's shoulder, hard, making Tony produce a sound halfway between a yelp and a groan as Thor comes inside him.

They lie there for a moment, slick with sweat and Tony's come. Breathing hard. Thor's hand runs up and down Tony's back. He can feel Thor's cock twitch inside him, clenches until he feels Thor jerk. Hears the laughter rumble inside his big chest.

“That was.” He doesn't know how to continue. There are too many options. Hot, amazing. Mind-blowing. A divine experience. Well, half-divine. Tony giggles, a bit out of it still. Shit, he's ridiculous. Thor tugs on his hair, makes him look up and leans in for another kiss. Softer this time, but no less sure of itself. Tony hums, tongue pushing into Thor's mouth. Thor's hand trails down his back, wraps around his ass cheek and squeezes until Tony gasps.

He can feel Thor's cock going hard inside him again. Laughs.

“Much as I appreciate it, take some pity on me. I'm not the youngest any more. In fact, I've been fighting the urge to tell Peter to get off my lawn since this morning.”

“You speak in riddles, ástin,” Thor mouths against Tony's cheek.

“You're the one to talk. What's that even mean, 'oustin'?” Tony stumbles over the unfamiliar word. Thor chuckles, cups Tony's cheek.

“An answer for a different day,” he says, the cryptic asshole. “Let me take your mind off it, for now.”

With that, he rolls Tony off him, manhandling him prone onto the bed.

“Yeah? How're you gonna do that?”

“I have my ways,” Thor says, leaving a trail of kisses along Tony's spine. Bites one of Tony's ass cheeks.

“I'm waiting,” Tony teases and trails of into a stream of strangled profanity.

 fin.

* * *

 

Out of the night that covers me,  
Black as the pit from pole to pole,  
I thank whatever gods may be  
For my unconquerable soul.  
  
In the fell clutch of circumstance  
I have not winced nor cried aloud.  
Under the bludgeonings of chance  
My head is bloody, but unbowed.  
  
Beyond this place of wrath and tears  
Looms but the Horror of the shade,  
And yet the menace of the years  
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.  
  
It matters not how strait the gate,  
How charged with punishments the scroll,  
I am the master of my fate:  
I am the captain of my soul.

 _Invictus  
_ by William Ernest Henley

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was quite a ride. Thank you for reading and staying with me till the end. I hope you had as much fun reading as I had writing it. Looking back at my notes, I'm as always amazed at the turn my stories seem to take while I'm writing. I'm glad that I could finally finish this and hope there will be more for you to read in the future.
> 
> Let's keep our fingers cross my muse will stick around and stop being such a fickle thing.
> 
> Thank you for your kudos and comments - they mean a lot and help me get through less inspired phases. ;)


End file.
